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ADA VERNHAM 





ADA VERNHAM, 
ACTRESS 


t 


By 

Richard Marsh 

Author of 

Frivolities,” “Tom Ossington’s Ghost,” etc. 



Boston y 

L. C. Page & Company jlj 

MDCCCC JjJ 

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I-ibrary of Congr 

Two Copies Recl -ed 

JUL 23 1900 

Copyright entry 

" 24, /pCO 



No.^y 

FIRST COPY. \ 

2wd Co-py Delivered to \ 

(H3PER DIVISIOH | 

H $00^ 




Copyright , /goo 

By L. C. Page and Company 
(incorporated) 


All rights reserved 


(Tolonfal $ress 

Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co. 
Boston, Mass., U. S. A. 


CONTENTS 


FACE 

I. BOGUS ....... I 

II. AN OFFER OF ASSISTANCE ... 8 

III. PHILIP BASING 19 

IV. A FRIEND IN NEED . . . . 29 

V. THE SOHO THEATRE .... 33 

VI. THE DRAMATIST’S WIFE ... 49 

VII. REHEARSING 60 

VIII. TWO REQUESTS 74 

IX. LADY POLHURSTON .... 90 

X. MR BAINES CAREW . . . . 10 $ 

XI. THE RESOLUTION OF A DOUBT . . II9 

XII. THE HORROR OF THE RESOLUTION . 1 25 

XIII. A PENITENT 1 32 

XIV. THE LAST REHEARSAL .... I45 

XV. LUCIAN MABBETT 1 54 

XVI. THE PRIEST AS A MAN . . . . 170 

XVII. THE EVE OF THE PRODUCTION . . 1 89 

XVIII. IN FRONT 202 

XIX. BEHIND 217 

XX. ACT ONE 229 

XXL BETWEEN THE ACTS . . . 238 

XXII. ACT TWO 252 

XXIII. THE END OF THE PLAY . . . 265 


M 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

CHAPTER I 
BOGUS 

They stood outside the door of the Assembly 
Rooms. The proprietor, Abraham Llewelyn, stood 
inside. He barred their ingress. 

‘ I don’t care what there is of yours. It’s mine 
till I am paid my rent. You don’t any of you set 
foot inside my place until I am.’ 

Douglas Faber, * first old man,’ endeavoured to 
induce him to hear reason. 

‘You’ve no right to detain our things. We’re 
not your debtors. Haven’t you sense enough to 
see that we’re even greater sufferers than you are. 
You won’t improve your position by making ours 
worse.’ 

Mr Llewelyn put up a dirty forefinger. He 
wagged it at Douglas Faber. 

‘ This is a bilk, my lad. It’s the second bilk 

A 


2 ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

I’ve had this season. You’re a friend of the 
bilker—’ 

Then came an instant interruption from Faber. 

* I’m nothing of the kind.’ 

‘ Then what are you ? ’ 

‘ I’m one of the poor devils whom he’s bilked. 
Don’t I tell you that he owes me part of three 
weeks, and the whole of the fourth weeks salary. 
Does that look as if he were my friend ? Don’t be 
an idiot ! Try and see if we can’t improve the 
situation by pulling together. Let’s give the usual 
show to-night, if this sort of weather keeps on there 
ought to be a good house — and let’s share out the 
treasury.’ 

Mr Llewelyn put his hands into his trousers 
pockets. He eyed the little, anxious crowd. And 
he winked. 

‘ And what may your idea of sharing out the 
treasury be ? There won’t be a pound in the 
place — I never saw a worse show than yours, it 
really isn’t good enough to draw the dead heads ! 
And when it comes to sharing out a pound — what 
you call sharing out — why, it won’t bring me the 
price of my gas ! ’ He broke into sudden passion. 
‘You go and be damned! You’re nothing but 
a lot of swindling mouchers, that’s what you 
are I’ 


BOGUS 


3 


Before they suspected his intention, drawing 
back quickly, he slammed the door in their faces. 
The action was followed outside by a sort of spasm 
of involuntary silence. They could hear him 
bolting and barring. 

Leonard Hargreaves — ‘juvenile lead’ — laughed 
acidly. It was cold and exposed in front of the 
Assembly Rooms. The sea wind, rushing from 
the sands round the corner of the street, dashed 
the rain into their faces. They moved uneasily 
inside their clothing, as they glanced furtively into 
each other’s eyes. 

It was Cliffe Davies — ‘character’ — who broke 
the silence. His tone was more bitter than his 
words. His round face twitched. 

‘ This looks like good biz ! A case of “ shutter ” 
with a vengeance.’ 

* Does he really mean that he won’t let us have 
our wardrobes ? ’ 

The speaker was a girl on her first tour, who 
had dreamed dreams of the profession. Davies 
answered her. 

‘ Devilish good seeming if he doesn’t.’ 

‘ But what shall I do? Nearly all my things are 
in the dressing room. I only have a small box at 
my diggings, and I’ve only got a few shillings in 
my purse.’ 


4 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


The girl began to cry. A woman whose face 
suggested drink, slipped her arm through hers, 
as if to comfort her. Davies continued : 

‘ If you’ve got a few shillings, my dear, you’ve 
got that much more than I have. I’m stony. It’ll 
have to be a case of busking on the beach.’ He 
looked up at the drifting clouds. ‘ Though while 
this watering pot keeps on emptying ’twill be to 
busk in vain.’ 

A woman came round the corner of the street 
hurriedly. She hastened towards them, as it 
fearful of being late. They received her with 
vacant looks. 

‘ What’s the matter ? ’ she inquired. ‘ Is treasury 
over ? ’ 

Davies replied. ‘ It is, — “ for ever and for 
ever, world without end. Amen.” The English 
Comedy Company is over too.’ 

The woman seemed to stagger. One could 
see, through her veil, that her pale face went 
paler. 

‘What do you mean?’ 

Douglas Faber took the words from Davies’ 
lips. 

‘ That brute Montgomerie’s bolted. He’s taken 
every stiver away with him. God knows where 
he’s gone to/ 


BOGUS 


5 

He finished by raining a volley of curses on 
the head of the absent man. 

‘ Is there no treasury at all ? ’ 

‘ Not a — farthing.’ 

There was silence. The woman leaned against 
the wall. They looked at her. 

‘That will be — that will be very inconvenient 
for me — but how about the show to-night?’ 

‘There won’t be any. Llewelyn’s locked us 
out.’ 

‘ Locked us out ! But how about our ward- 
robes ? ’ 

‘Yes, how about them? I should like to know 
how about them. Llewelyn says that we shan’t 
have them till the rent is paid. I can’t pay it. 
I don’t know if you can.’ 

The woman passed from passivity to excite- 
ment. She moved away from the wall, holding 
out her hands in front of her. 

‘ But I must have my wardrobe ! — I must ! — It’s 
all I have in the world.’ 

Faber shrugged his shoulders, and was still. 
Davies pulled the collar of his coat up higher 
about his ears. 

‘ I ’m bound to say that my wardrobe isn’t worth 
the mint,’ he muttered. ‘ I wouldn’t like to back 
myself to spout it for a thick ’un.’ 


6 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


The woman seemed surprised that she was 
able to convey so little of her own excitement 
to the others. She repeated her assertion. 

* I must have my wardrobe ! — I must ! * 

‘ Then, if I were you, I’d get it ! * 

Faber, standing sideways as he said this, winked 
with the eye which was farthest from her. She, 
unconscious of the wink, took his words as if 
they had been meant in earnest. 

‘ I will ! She turned to the door which Mr 
Llewelyn had closed. • Where’s the knocker or 
the bell?’ 

Faber still spoke ironically. 

‘ There doesn’t appear to be either a knocker 
or a bell. Llewelyn doesn’t favour such luxuries 
at his establishment. It wouldn’t do. You’ll have 
to knock with your fist, or a stone, or the heel of 
your boot. You’ll try your heel, if you take my 
advice.’ 

She struck the door with her clenched fist, 
making no impression on the massive panel. 
Ernest Carruthers — ‘utility’ — held up his hand. 

‘May I offer you my stick?’ 

She took it — a stout, oak sapling. She struck 
two or three vigorous blows with it, against the 
door. A window opened overhead, just as a 


BOGUS 7 

constable came strolling up. Mr Llewelyn look- 
ing out, hailed the man in blue. 

‘ Evan Evans, move those people away from 
there.’ 

The woman called to him. 

‘ Mr Llewelyn, you have my wardrobe. You 
must let me in, please. I want to get it — I must 
have it ! I don’t owe you anything ! ’ 

Mr Llewelyn ignored her utterly. He addressed 
the constable. 

‘ First those vagabonds swindle me out of my 
rent, then they want to destroy my property. If 
they want anything from me, let them apply to 
the police station for it, and I’ll apply to the police 
station too — then we’ll see ! Do you hear what 
I tell you, Evan Evans; move them away from 
here — right away ! ’ 

In spite of their expostulations, Evan Evans 
moved them away — for, in that town, Abraham 
Llewelyn was a man of standing. 


CHAPTER II 


AN OFFER OF ASSISTANCE 

She had been in tight places before — heaven 
knew ! — but this place which she was in now 
bade fair to be the very tightest. She was 
penniless— which is about the hardest thing that 
can befall a woman. Actually without a farthing. 
And hungry. A stranger. And in debt. She 
owed for food and lodging — being well aware that 
her landlady regarded her with something stronger 
than suspicion. The major part of the company 
had been on less than half salaries practically since 
the tour had started. She had eked out the 
pittance which Mr Montgomerie had doled out to 
her with what she still had had left of her own. Now 
her own store was exhausted. Business having 
been bad, it had been surmised that, as usual, 
there would not be a full treasury, but the 
sanguine manager had declared that a remittance 


AN OFFER OF ASSISTANCE 


9 


would be sent to him from town, and that, in any 
case, he would do his best. So, with a consciously 
anxious heart, she had hoped that she would at 
least receive enough to enable her to free herself 
from debt. 

That her anxiety had been justified was proved 
by the fact that the enterprising manager, taking 
his courage with both hands, levanting with 
the entire weekly receipts, had left the members 
of the ‘ English Comedy Company,’ for all he 
knew or cared, without the wherewithal in their 
pockets with which to buy themselves a crust of 
bread and cheese, stranded in that remote Welsh 
watering-place some three hundred miles away 
from town, and with their personal possessions at 
the mercy of the keepers of their lodgings, and, 
particularly, of the defrauded proprietor of the 
Assembly Rooms, in which building they had been 
performing all the week. 

Miss Vernham did not know what to do. She 
was feeling hungry, tired, and heartsick — half- 
dazed. She did not know where to go. Instinct 
told her that it would be absurd to return to her 
lodgings till she had some tale ready to tell her 
landlady. She wandered aimlessly along the 
front. The rain had increased ; she had no 
umbrella; the wind was blowing half a gale, 


10 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


possibly it was her mental condition which caused 
her to feel physically cold— the farther she went 
the more she shivered. At last, in desperation, 
turning, she went swiftly back to her room. 

Mr Leonard Hargreaves was sauntering on the 
pavement in the rain, apparently awaiting her 
approach. She disliked this man more than any 
other member of the company, which was saying 
not a little. 

‘ I want to speak to you,’ he said. * Can I come 
in? I’m getting moist.’ 

She accorded him permission with a movement 
of her head, being almost too spent for speech. 
He might not be to her taste, but she felt, at the 
moment, that anything was better than being left 
alone and helpless. As the door was opened, the 
landlady darted out from her own regions at the 
back ; then, seeing that her lodger was attended, 
she withdrew. The pair entered the apartment 
which served Miss Vernham as bed and sitting- 
room. As he stood his umbrella in the fireplace, 
Hargreaves looked about him. 

‘You’re snug in here ! ’ 

The woman moved her shoulders. The place 
was cheap and nasty, but, knowing, as she did, 
that she was hanging over the very edge of the 
outer ditch, it had suddenly become to her almost 


AN OFFER OF ASSISTANCE 


ii 


luxurious. She dropped on to a chair with a sigh. 
With his back to the fireplace, he eyed her steadily, 
as if he were appraising her. 

‘You’re a fine woman, my dear, though you’ve 
been oyerdoing it. You ought to do better for 
yourself than this. Lift up your veil.’ 

She did not do as he bade her. 

‘ What do you want ? ’ 

He laughed — without answering her question. 

‘Nice man, Montgomerie! Stony lot of 
mourners he’s left behind him ! ’ 

‘ Are they all hard up ? ’ 

‘ Skinned ! the lot of them. You couldn’t collect 
half a sovereign from the entire batch. One or 
two of them have been having a shot at me, but 
I’m not taking any. “ Neither a borrower nor a 
lender be.” That’s my motto. And as for alms, I 
never give them.’ 

‘ Have you got money ? ’ 

‘ A pound or two, my dear, a pound or two ! ’ 
He rattled some coins in his pocket, and laughed 
again. ‘ I don’t fancy Montgomerie has used me 
quite so badly as he has the rest of you. That’s 
between ourselves. I knew a thing or two about 
him, you see, and it wouldn’t have done. Besides, 
perhaps I may have a little pot of my own laid by. 
There aren’t only paupers in the world.’ 


12 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


She showed no disposition to speak when he 
ceased, but sat in silence, as if in thought Pres- 
ently, she raised her veil, which action he immedi- 
ately approved. 

‘That’s better, you never ought to hide a face 
like yours. By Jove ! you’re a fine woman, upon 
my soul, you are. You ought to be doing a lot 
better than knocking about at what are, by rights, 
nothing but one night stands.’ She continued 
silent. ‘ How has he left you ? * 

‘Without a penny in the world.’ 

He laughed again, as if the idea of her destitution 
amused him. 

' Do you know that, if you had liked, I believe 
you might have gone halves with him. If you 
had raised your finger, he’d have taken you in as 
partner. Only you’re so infernally stand-off.’ 

Rising, she turned her back on him, as if in 
obedience to a feeling of unconquerable repulsion. 
Taking off her gloves, she felt her jacket with her 
fingers. He watched her, seemingly oblivious of 
the significance of her manner towards himself. 

‘ You’re wet.’ 

‘Yes, I am.’ 

‘ And hungry ? ’ 

‘ I’m almost starving.’ 

‘ Have you paid up here ? 1 


AN OFFER OF ASSISTANCE 


13 


‘No.’ 

‘ Then what are you going to do ? * Once more 
she moved her shoulder, still keeping her back 
towards him. ‘ If you’ll condescend to let me see 
the front of you, I’ll tell you what I’ve come for.’ 
She hesitated ; then slowly faced him. ‘ I’ve come 
to give you a helping hand. I guessed to what 
extent your pockets were lined, though you’ve 
been proud enough to have them lined with 
millions.’ She yet kept silence. ‘Well, what do 
you say?’ 

‘ Thank you.’ 

‘ Is that all ? ’ 

‘ What else would you have me say ? I can but 
thank you/ 

She stood fronting him, motionless as if she had 
been a statue, a bright red spot flaming on each 
of her white cheeks. Something in her attitude, 
or her manner, seemed continually to appeal to 
his sense of humour. Again he laughed. 

‘You’re a caution, upon my soul you are. 
Humanise yourself, my dear ; come off that 
pedestal of yours, and let’s be sensible. Look 
here, why shouldn’t we chum it together, you 
and I?’ 

‘ What do you mean ? ’ 

‘You know very well what I mean, though, if 


14 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


you want it straight from the shoulder, you shall 
have it. Just come and live with me ; I’ll be your 
friend, at any rate until you get a shop. I’ll do the 
paying.’ 

She shuddered — he could scarcely have failed 
to notice it ; but, if he did, he showed no sign of 
having done so. 

! I’m a married woman.’ 

‘And I’m a married man. What’s the odds? 
Both our other halves seem missing.’ 

‘ I can’t — I won’t.’ 

‘You think again. Upon my soul, I’ll do things 
for you as well as I can. I’ll pay up here, and 
we’ll go up together by the afternoon express to 
town. When they find out here how the land lies, 
they’ll turn you out with nothing but what you 
stand up in, and what will you do then ? ’ 

She moved her lips as if to moisten them. 

‘Lend me enough money to take me up to 
London. I’ll pay it you back.’ 

‘ Neither a borrower nor a lender be ; don’t I tell 
you that’s my motto ? Nothing for nothing — that’s 
me. I’ll give you free quarters till you get a shop, 
that’s what my offer amounts to, and a deucedly 
liberal and gentlemanly offer too. If you don’t 
take it, you’ll be homeless before the sun goes 
down, and perhaps somewhere worse, before another 


AN OFFER OF ASSISTANCE 


15 


sun get ups. What are you kicking at ? I’m not 
a bad sort of fellow, upon my soul I’m not — in my 
way. Any one might think that I was asking for 
a favour, instead of offering to do one.’ 

She seemed to attempt to answer — and to fail. 
Instead, dropping on her knees, she hid her face in 
the dirty counterpane which covered the bed. He 
played the part of critical observer. 

‘ I do believe that you’ll make an actress yet, I’m 
hanged if I don’t. What are you supposed to be 
doing now — praying? or doing a weep? I’m not 
an ogre, that you should be afraid of me. Come, 
don’t be such an idiot. Get up, and give me a kiss, 
and tell me that you’ll be a good old pal.’ 

Crossing the room, he placed his hand, with the 
intention of a caress, upon her shoulder. Regain- 
ing an unsteady perpendicular, she held out her 
hand to keep him from her. 

‘ Don’t touch me — don’t !’ 

It seemed impossible to wound his feelings ; he 
only laughed at her. 

* Will you come ? ’ 

‘No.’ 

‘ Is that your final answer ? ’ 

‘ Lend me enough money to take me to London. 
Do ! do ! Why won’t you ? I’ll give it you back 
again. I promise you I will.’ 


16 ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

4 Is that your final answer ? ’ 

She looked at him fixedly, shuddering as she 
did so. 

‘ I can’t do what you want me to — and I won’t.’ 

‘ Then don’t, and be hanged to you ; if you 
like that better, you know very well what awaits 
you.’ 

Taking his umbrella from the fireplace, and his 
hat from the mantelpiece, he went out of the room. 
In a moment, however, he returned, holding out 
his hand, with several sovereigns in his outstretched 
palm. 

‘ Have you changed your mind ? Wouldn’t you 
like some of those ? Just think.’ 

She snatched a couple of sovereigns. 

‘ Lend me them. Do ! do ! ’ 

‘ Will you come with me ? ’ 

‘ No ! No ! ’ 

‘Then you give me back my money. If you 
don’t I’ll send for a policeman, and give you in 
charge as soon as look at you — you thief ! ’ 

Seeing from his face that what he said he meant, 
she held out to him the two sovereigns. Taking 
them from her without a word, he passed again 
from the room. She heard him stamp along the 
passage, and bang the front door as he went out 
into the street. 


AN OFFER OF ASSISTANCE 


17 


The bang was still reverberating when her land- 
lady appeared in the room. 

‘ I’ve come for you to pay your bill, miss, accord- 
ing to your promise.’ 

The woman was Welsh, with a copious supply 
of English at her tongue’s command. Doubtless, 
too, almost as much in want of money as her 
lodger. A victim, also, of previous lodgers, with a 
rooted and, not impossibly, well founded suspicion 
of the principles and practices of impecunious and 
unattached young women. When she found that 
no money was forthcoming, or likely to be, she 
favoured Miss Vernham with the full benefit of her 
opinion ; explaining what persons of her character 
were for, what ought to be done to and with them, 
and what she would do with them, if she only had 
the chance. 

The hopeless, hungry woman could do nothing 
to stem the torrent. ‘ But she should go at once,’ 
screamed the landlady ; ‘ a creature like her should 
no longer be allowed to darken the doors of a 
respectable house.’ 

Miss Vernham begged to be allowed to rest for 
a few moments, to have time to collect her 
thoughts. 

‘ Not an instant,’ screamed the woman. 

‘At least,’ implored Miss Vernham, ‘allow her to 

B 


18 ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

take with her some portion of her scant 
possessions.’ 

* Not a rag,’ screamed the woman ; ‘ it was like 
her impudence to ask such a thing. She might 
think herself lucky to get away scot free without 
being charged with swindling — she should be 
charged with swindling if she didn’t go at once. 
Now then, out you go ! ’ The landlady threw the 
door wide open. ‘ Am I to fetch a policeman ? 
Get out of my house ! Don’t stop to put your 
gloves and veil on in my house — put them on in 
the street — you shameless hussy ! ’ 

Miss Vernham was moving to do as she was 
bid when there came a sharp rat-tat-tat at the hall 
door knocker. With an exclamation the landlady 
went to see who was there, pulling the room door 
to behind her as she went. With a sigh of relief 
Miss Vernham sat down on the side of the bed — 
in her extremity even another moment’s breathing 
space was welcome. Steps approached the room. 
The landlady opened the door, saying in consider- 
ably modulated tones : — 

‘ Some one to see you.’ 

Having admitted the visitor, she disappeared. 


CHAPTER III 

PHILIP BASING 

SUPPOSING that it was Leonard Hargreaves re- 
turned, Miss Vernham did not even rise from her 
seat on the side of the bed to welcome him. But it 
was not Mr Hargreaves, nor any one like him ; this 
was a young man of not more than twenty-six or 
seven, tall and slender, with a slight moustache, an 
almost boyish face, big bright smiling eyes, and 
fair hair which curled all over his head. He was 
dressed in a light tweed suit. His scarlet necktie 
was tied in a neat bow, the long ends of which, with 
a sort of poetic license, strayed outside his waist- 
coat. He carried in his gloved hands a straw hat 
and an umbrella. 

Miss Vernham was so surprised by this appari- 
tion that she continued to sit on the bed and stare. 

‘ Miss Vernham ? But I see it is Miss Vernham.’ 
His voice was musical, pleasant, gay, as became his 


20 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


appearance. ‘ I must apologise for this very un- 
ceremonious intrusion, but I am leaving to-day, so 
that there was no time to write to ask you to grant 
me the favour of an appointment I am Philip 
Basing.’ 

By this time she had risen, and when he stopped, 
she bowed, being still at a loss for words. He 
seemed to have supposed that the mention of his 
name ought to have caused her some sort of 
emotion, and to be disappointed that she showed 
none. 

‘The name is not familiar?’ 

‘ I beg your pardon. I did not quite catch it ! ’ 

‘ Philip Basing. I am the author of one or two 
little dramatic pieces which have been favourably 
received in town, and of other things.’ 

Again he seemed to watch for some symptom of 
emotion. All that she felt was a sensation of dull 
surprise. What did this radiant young gentleman 
want here bringing with him a whiff of re- 
membrance from what, to her, was the land of 
ghosts ? Seeing that she was obviously incapable 
of vouchsafing him that small medicum of flattery 
which his soul desired, he laughed outright, lightly, 
sunnily. 

‘ I see that my name is not known even in the 
dramatic world so well as I had hoped. Never 


PHILIP BASING 


21 


mind, one of these days it shall be known the 
whole world over. Perhaps you will assist me to 
make it known/ 

She did not understand him in the least — showing 
her want of comprehension by the vacant look 
which was on her face. 

‘ I ? How shall I do that ? * 

* That is the secret. May I sit down ? Thanks. 
I was at the Assembly Rooms last night, and I saw 
you act/ 

‘ Indeed/ Perceiving that he expected her to 
say something else, she said it : ‘ Pm afraid that 
you were one ot a very scanty audience, and that 
you were disappointed/ 

‘ Disappointment supposes expectation. Since 
I expected nothing, I could scarcely be dis- 
appointed. It was a rainy night. I was in want 
of an umbrella, and, as a matter of fact, I was 
greatly surprised — by you/ 

‘ By me ? * Her voice assumed the tone of 
unconscious hauteur which was the outcome of the 
constant necessity to be upon her guard. * I can 
hardly imagine that you could have been agreeably 
surprised by anything I did/ 

Leaning his elbow on the table by which he was 
seated, he rested his head upon his hand and 


22 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


regarded her with something of laughter, and 
something of appraisement in his eyes. 

‘ People of our profession are at liberty to utter 
plain truths to one another, even when they are of 
opposite sexes, and yet stand excused. So, Miss 
Vernham, you must suffer me. Are you aware 
how lovely you are — upon the stage ? * 

The last three words were added as if by an 
afterthought — almost as if he were suggesting that 
the clear, cold light had revealed to him the fact 
that her beauty extended no farther than the 
stage. Women of the theatre become so habituated 
to physical appraisement, that remarks which their 
sisters would, to say the least, regard askance, are 
passed by them unnoticed. She merely questioned 
his right, as it were, to comment. 

‘ Are you an actor ? ’ 

He shook his head. 

‘ I am a dramatist—as yet at the commencement 
of my career. Though, possibly, the full summer 
of that career may be nearer than the world 
supposes. I have taken the Soho Theatre in 
London, at which I propose shortly to produce, 
under what, I trust, will be favourable auspices, 
a three-act poetic play of my own. I have reason 
to anticipate that it will meet with, at least, a 


PHILIP BASING 


23 


measure of success. My errand here is to offer you 
a part in it 

She looked at him quickly, as if fearful that her 
ears had played her false. 

‘ Offer me a part ? ’ 

‘Yes. I will be frank with you. From what I 
saw last night, I judged that your acting, shall we 
say, would bear improvement. Though I suppose 
you are not entirely an amateur.’ 

‘ I have been on the stage two years, and more.’ 

‘ So long as that ? I should hardly have thought 
it. I take it that you have not been trained in the 
best possible school. I mean — that is — that your 
experience has been provincial.’ 

‘ I have been trained in the school of necessity, 
playing whatever parts were offered.’ 

‘ Precisely. And not a bad training either, from 
the old timer’s point of view.’ He paused, as if he 
wished to say something else, without knowing 
exactly how to say it, then changed his intended 
theme. ‘ The part which I should offer you, you 
understand, would not be one of capital importance. 
Miss Graham — Agnes Graham — will be my leading 
lady, and your part would extend, perhaps, to 
something over three lengths. Assisted by the 
few hints which, I trust, you will allow me to give 
you during rehearsal, and by the charm of your 


24 ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

personal appearance, I am inclined to think that 
you will do it justice.* 

* It is very good of you to trust me. I will do 
my best. I have never appeared in town.* 

‘No? I should tell you that the salary which I 
shall be able to offer you at first will not be a large 
one. My principal people will cost me a very 
great deal, and at the beginning I must be careful. 
Miss Graham is expensive ; so are my two leading 
men, John Tullett and Rayment. I am afraid 
that I shall not be able to commence with more 
than four guineas a week, with half salaries during 
rehearsals. If the piece meets with the favour I 
anticipate, and you are yourself successful, I shall 
have pleasure in materially increasing that sum, as 
the run proceeds.’ 

She seemed at a loss what to say to him, which, 
indeed, she was. The revulsion of feeling was so 
strange, so sudden, and so strong. The salary of 
which he spoke so lightly, seemed to her, in her 
then position, actual wealth. And then there was 
all that went with it. To have realised, in a 
moment, and such a moment ! the provincial 
mummer’s dream ; to be about to play to the 
world, the great, wide, generous world of London, 
instead of to the brain-bound odds and ends of 
Little Pedlington ; to have, in front of her, the 


PHILIP BASING 


25 


prospect of creating an original r61e in an original 
play, by a coming dramatist, on a metropolitan 
stage. These things were, just then, too much 
for her, and they made of her a child. She behaved 
like a child, she cried. 

Mr Basing half rose from his seat. 

‘ My dear lady ! What is the matter ? * 

‘You mustn’t ask me — it is because you have 
made me so happy — it is so sudden — but I won’t 
disappoint you. I promise you that — I will act 
better than I did last night.’ 

The words came from her in inchoate confusion. 
Although she might not have been aware of it, she 
was paying him the sort of compliment which he 
most cherished, she was appealing to the emotional 
side of his nature. He smiled gaily. So, leaning 
towards her across the little table, as his voice rose 
and fell in musical cadences, he became a young 
man inspired. 

‘You shouldn’t cry. You’re going to make a 
great success — I’m sure of it ! You’re going to 
take the world by storm, and so’s my play ! I call 
it “ A Legend of the Rhine ” — that’s not a bad 
name, is it ? It’s a good play — a fine play. I’m not 
sure it isn’t a great play, although I say it. It’s the 
play the world’s been waiting for ; you mark my 
words and see. And in it you’ll be suited to a T. 


26 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


Your lovely face and form will be seen to supreme 
advantage in that land of poesy in which the scene 
is laid ; you’ll walk straight into the public heart. 
I tell you plainly that I believe a lot of people will 
come to “ A Legend of the Rhine ” for the mere 
sake of seeing you. You little dream of the future 
there’s in store for you. This meeting of ours is 
the luckiest thing that ever was — a thing never to 
be forgotten ; each is what the other wants. “ A 
Legend of the Rhine ” will be the making of you, 
and you’ll have something to do with the making of 
“ A Legend of the Rhine.” The fame of our names 
will bridge the spheres — I’m sure of it.’ 

His enthusiasm was infectious. The sight of his 
handsome, sanguine, boyish face, the sound of his 
eager, ringing tones, carried her out of herself — 
almost to the extent of believing that what he said 
was true. 

‘ It does me good to hear you talk.’ 

‘ It does me good to see you smile. Always 
smile like that, and there’s nothing that you won’t 
get for the asking.’ He glanced at his watch. 
‘But, I say, I must be off. You and I must have 
some sort of a formal agreement. I mean to have 
this engagement down in black and white. I don’t 
intend to let you slip through my fingers, mind. 
Have you some writing paper ? ’ 


PHILIP BASING 


27 


She produced some odd sheets, some muddy 
lodging-house ink, and a doubtful pen. He sur- 
veyed those materials ruefully. 

‘ It’s plain that you’re not a literary person/ 
Labouring under difficulties, he drew up in rough 
and ready fashion, on separate sheets, duplicate 
copies of an agreement. ‘ I think that’ll do. To 
make this right, our signatures ought to be witnessed.’ 

The landlady was requested to act as witness, to 
which request she acceded sourly. When she was 
gone, Mr Basing handed one copy to Miss Vern- 
ham, retaining the other for himself. 

‘ I give you fair warning that I mean to have 
mine stamped ; if you take my advice, you’ll have 
yours stamped, too ; nothing like business habits in 
business matters.’ 

‘ When do the rehearsals commence ? ' 

‘ Let me see ; I suppose in about four months from 
now.’ When he said that, her heart sank in her 
bosom like a lump of lead. He was eyeing the 
sheet of paper which he was carefully folding, or 
he could scarcely have failed to notice the sudden 
pallor which overspread her face. ‘This is June. 
My tenancy of the theatre begins on October 20th ; 
I should like the production to take place as nearly 
as possible on that date, so we shall be rehearsing, 
probably, by the beginning of the month. But, 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


of course, I will let you know. Where shall I ad- 
dress you ? ’ 

‘ My address is rather erratic.’ 

Her voice was lower than it had been just now, 
though still he seemed to notice nothing. 

‘ Haven’t you an agent ? ’ 

‘Not at present.’ 

‘ That’s awkward.’ 

‘It is, rather. I tell you what I might do, I 
might write to you, and keep you posted in my 
address, if you’ll tell me where to write.’ 

‘ That’ll do first-rate, but mind you do. Here’s 
my card. If you’re in town, you might look me 
up, and we would go through the play together, 
and you could tell me how you think it will shape.’ 


CHAPTER IV 


A FRIEND IN NEED 

WHEN the landlady appeared in the room, which 
she did as soon as the visitor had gone, she found 
Miss Vernham reading her copy of the agreement 
— reading it with a very curious expression of 
countenance. It was satisfactory as far as it 
went, but all the good things which it promised 
were only to begin coming four months hence. 

Well — have you got me my money?’ 

* I’m afraid that I haven’t.’ 

‘ Didn’t he give it you ? ’ 

‘ He ? — what do you mean ? * 

The landlady let her know what she meant 
plainly. She would listen to nothing the other 
had to say. She wanted her cash down now on 
the nail. What was the good of telling her 
rubbishing - lies about October — did the woman 
take her for a fool ? She was all the angrier 


30 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


because she was plainly disappointed — she had 
supposed that the arrival of the glorious stranger 
had meant the advent of money. 

By way of tasting the first fruits of her good 
fortune within a quarter of an hour of Mr Basing’s 
departure, Ada Vernham found herself being turned 
ignominiously into the street. As she went down 
the road, the landlady, standing on the doorstep, 
shaking her clenched fist, sped, with an expression 
of her candid opinion uttered at the top of her 
voice, the parting guest. 

The rain had ceased. The wind had dropped. 
The sun was giving occasional peeps from behind 
the scudding drifts. She went and sat on the 
front, having an entire seat to herself. 

What was she to do — that was the question 
which she had to propose to herself. It was a 
difficult one — none the easier because it was one 
which required prompt solution. Circumstanced 
as she was, the agreement which she had in her 
pocket seemed to be something worse than a 
mockery. How was she to keep herself alive 
during the next four months, and in what condition 
would she be at the end of them ? How was she to 
get out of this dreadful place. Where was she to go 
to if she quitted it ? 

She had nothing about her which was pawnable 


A FRIEND IN NEED 


3i 


— unless it was the clothing she was wearing. She 
was already so scantily dressed that she had not a 
garment she could dispense with. Moreover, she 
felt pretty sure that there was not a pawnshop in 
the place. It was astonishing how hungry she 
was. Her normal appetite was a good one. She 
was not one of those women who are able to bear 
hunger with comparative equanimity. The fact 
that this was so had troubled her not a little of 
late. Now, if she had only even a penny to buy 
bread with which to stay her stomach, it would 
have been something — what a dainty appetising 
morsel, a good crusty loaf, hot out of the 
baker’s oven, would be ! As it was, the 
suffering occasioned her by her longing for food 
was so poignant that it deprived her of the capacity 
to think. 

She must do something. She could not sit still 
there all day starving. She began to wander 
about aimlessly, and presently found herself look- 
ing into the window of a shop in which some 
trinkets were exposed for sale. Although, pro- 
bably, she did not realise their presence, just in 
front of her were three or four tawdry silver 
ornaments. As she stood vaguely staring, seeing 
nothing, a voice addressed her from behind. 

‘ Would you like me to buy you those ? They’d 


32 ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

look well on you, though they’re hardly good 
enough to do you justice.’ 

She turned. The speaker was standing right 
at her back, looking over her shoulder. She had 
not been cognisant of the fact, but he had been 
standing there for a second or two, had indeed 
been dogging her steps since she had risen from 
the seat. He was a big man with a heavy 
moustache. She was conscious that he wore 
knickerbockers, and that a gold chain passed from 
pocket to pocket of his waistcoat. As she looked 
at him, a wild something entered into her — some- 
thing which made her heart beat frantically against 
her ribs ; something which made the blood course 
faster through her veins ; something which set 
her brain in a whirl. She was so hungry! 

She answered him with a smile. 

‘ I should like you to give me the money to buy 
them with.’ 

He laughed. . . . When she left the window 
they were walking side by side. 


CHAPTER V 


THE SOHO THEATRE 

The door-keeper asked her her name. 

‘ I am Miss Vernham.’ 

‘ Miss Ada Vernham ! ’ He was referring to a 
list which he had in his hand. She nodded. 
‘ Good. Straight on — you’ll find the stage up the 
steps at the end of the passage. There’s no one 
here yet, only Mr Basing. Don’t seem as if they 
was going to be very punctual.’ 

It was a change from the bright sunlight and 
life of the street into the stillness and gloom of 
the theatre. Among the unfamiliar shadows she 
did not find the way so easy as the door-keeper’s 
words had suggested. Turning one or two wrong 
handles before mounting a narrow flight of steps, 
which were revealed by rounding a sudden twist 
in the passage, she found herself confronting the 
dim expanse of the unlighted stage. For a 

C 


34 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


moment or two, standing at the open door, she 
thought she had it to herself, until a tall figure 
came hurrying towards her from the opposite 
wing. It was Mr Basing — though at first she 
did not know him. She had only seen him once, 
during those few minutes four months ago ; in 
his regulation frock coat and silk hat, he looked 
so different. Nor, for an instant, did he recognise 
her. When the recognition came, he held out 
to her both his hands. 

‘ Miss Vernham ? — of course it is ! It’s awfully 
good of you to be the first to come — actors are 
unpunctual beggars. Come this way — you’re not 
afraid? — and let me have a look at you.’ 

Leading her down to the floats, where the 
light was a little better, he subjected her to a 
critical examination. 

‘Charming! — charming! You’re looking a lot 
better than when I saw you last. Well groomed, 
too — that’s a knowing hat you’ve got, it shows 
you off. I like the dress too — what’s the colour, 
sheeny green ? It’s a bad light in here. Take my 
tip, for an actress good grooming’s three quarters 
of the battle — lots of people don’t care what she’s 
like inside so long as she’s all right outside. What 
have you been doing since I saw you — ravishing 
the provinces?’ 


THE SOHO THEATRE 


35 


She turned slightly away before she answered. 

‘No. I haven’t been acting at all during the 
last four months.’ 

‘ Ah, it’s well to be able to afford that kind of 
thing. Do you know, Miss Vernham, I know 
plenty of women, high up in the profession, who, 
if they had been resting all that time, couldn’t 
afford to be groomed like you.’ 

She stooped to shake some imaginary dust off 
the hem of her skirt. 

‘ And how are you ? you’re looking well.’ 

‘Ah, my looks don’t pity me, never do. But 
I’m full of hope, full of hope. “ A Legend of the 
Rhine ” is a good play, I’m sure of it, certain ! 
Everybody owns it. And it’ll be well acted. I’m 
sorry to say that I shan’t be able to spend as much 
on the mounting as I should like to.’ He put his 
thumb to his lips with a little rueful gesture, which 
inevitably recalled the action of a child. ‘ On the 
scenario of the last act alone I should like to spend 
a couple of thousand, it would make a magnificent 
effect ; it would be worth it. A precipitous cliff 
on the banks of the Rhine, with the river rushing 
rapidly beneath — a fat purse, and good stage 
carpentering, could do something with that. At 
the same time, it must be owned that this band- 
box of a stage isn’t just the thing for big effects, 


36 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


and the carpenter is a bit too much in the air. It’s 
a small house, too, only holds just over a hundred 
and fifty at a cram. So, even getting a hundred 
and fifty pounds a night, a large outlay would 
take a lot of getting back. No, with us the play 
must be the thing — and the acting. If the two 
together don’t draw London, nothing can, but 
they will, Miss Vernham, they will!’ 

While Mr Basing continued to soliloquise, for 
that was what the conversation amounted to, a 
new-comer appeared. A tall, dark man, with big 
black eyes, whom Miss Vernham recognised, from 
the photographs she had seen of him, as John 
Tullett, one of the theatrical fashions of the hour. 
As Mr Basing rushed up to him, Miss Vernham 
was left alone, for the moment, to take her 
bearings. 

In days of old she had been more than once in 
the Soho Theatre, in front ; she had, therefore, 
been aware that it was small, but, until surveying 
it from the stage, she had not realised how small 
it really was. It seemed incredible that it could 
hold more than a hundred and fifty pounds, even 
as Mr Basing phrased it, ‘ at a cram.’ Its size was 
in her favour. In spite of her magnificent physique, 
the management of her voice was not her strongest 
point, in a large building only a blurred impression 


THE SOHO THEATRE 


37 


of what she said was apt to reach the audience. 
Here, too, her physical charms would be displayed 
to the best advantage ; Mr Basing had laid so 
strong a stress on them that she was aware that, 
in his judgment, they were the most promising 
part of her. 

She was introduced to John Tullett. Other 
people entering, they were left together. One 
thing he said, directly the dramatist’s back was 
turned, which affected her disagreeably. 

‘Sanguine man, Basing. Do you know him 
well?’ 

‘ This is only the second time I have seen him.’ 

‘So?’ Mr Tullett had a trick of looking over 
the head of the person he was addressing — as if he 
were desirous of offering them an opportunity to 
admire his eyes. ‘ When a minor poet turns 
dramatist we — can but hope for the best. Limited 
editions are not synonymous with limited houses. 
They mean different things.’ 

The remark was nothing — but it suggested that 
there was at least one person — and that a good 
judge ! who was not prepared to take ‘ A Legend 
of the Rhine ’ entirely on trust. And the success 
of that masterpiece meant almost more to her than 
it did to the author. 

As the company assembled she became conscious 


38 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


of being distinctly out of it These were not the 
sort of people she had been accustomed to in her 
provincial experiences. They were well dressed, 
in spite of Mr Basing’s outspoken comments, she 
was aware that the women were better groomed 
than she was. Judging from appearances, and 
from their conversation, they all seemed to have 
plenty of money in their pockets. And they had 
the grand manner — or what was meant for it. 
Everybody knew everybody else ; more, they knew 
everybody whom everybody else knew. Many of 
these acquaintances seemed to be found in exalted 
circles. She heard names uttered — Lord this, 
Lady that — with the owners of which she had 
been familiar almost since she left her cradle ; 
they were family friends ; relations, some of them 
— near, and at one time, dear. They sounded 
strange, coming from such lips in that place — 
almost as if she heard them in a dream. Spas- 
modic attempts were made to introduce her — with 
little success. She felt that they did not know who 
she was, nor wanted to. Even the men regarded 
her askance. 

The one or two remarks with which she was 
favoured, were scarcely pleasant ones. For instance, 
Agnes Graham came to her fresh from a tite-a-tete 
with Mr Basing. 


THE SOHO THEATRE 


39 


‘ Mr Basing tells me that you are on with me in 
my great scene. As you are so much taller than I 
am, it seems rather a pity/ 

The observation was so politely insolent that the 
other saw her way to nothing but a quid pro quo. 

‘ For me ? Or for you ? ' 

The famous actress was sublimely contemptuous 
of the unknown one’s impertinence. 

‘ For both of us. It will make you look absurd. 
I have been telling Mr Basing that he ought to 
have thought of that before engaging you. He 
ought to have been quite well aware that I never 
care to act with people who are taller than myself. 
You must be very careful to keep yourself as far 
away from me as possible. I will speak to Mr 
Harley, and tell him what I want.’ 

Now Mr Harley was a stage manager, that 
strong man of the theatre. Ada Vernham per- 
ceived that, so far as the personal equation was 
concerned, she need not look for assistance to 
Agnes Graham. That lady had objected to her at 
sight. As Miss Graham moved off, Mr Rayment 
approached. His remarks did not tend to increase 
her comfort. 

Rayment had gained a tolerably good position 
on the stage some twenty years ago, and kept it 
ever since. He was one of your fifteen-to-twenty- 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


pounds-a-week men, never accepting less than the 
first, and never getting more than the latter. His 
line was young man, and the older he became the 
better he played them. As he aged, his method 
broadened ; until now it had got to be understood 
that, if you wanted a good sterling lover, one not 
absolutely a Romeo, but still with a dash of passion, 
whether costume or otherwise, you could rely on 
Rayment. In private life he acted the part of 
candid friend. He had seen a good many stage 
generations of professional people come and go ; it 
amused him to watch their transit, and to comment 
on its different phases. 

‘ So you’re the coming beauty ? * 

It would be foolish for an unknown, or even for a 
rising actress, to resent that sort of remark from a 
man of Rayment’s standing. 

‘ Indeed. I wasn’t aware of it.’ 

* Basing is. Basing is aware of everything. 
Dear me, what a lot of coming beauties I have 
known. The fair Agnes is a going one.’ 

It was impossible to mistake the allusion, he 
pointed it with a glance of his twinkling eyes. 
She hardly knew how to take him. 

* Miss Graham has something much better than 
beauty.’ 

1 You would think so. People always admire in 


THE SOHO THEATRE 


4i 


others what they haven’t got themselves. You’ll 
find that that’s why Agnes will admire you. 
Basing’s a fool.’ 

She glanced at him to see if he was in earnest. 
His face was imperturbable. 

‘ He strikes me as being anything but that.’ 

His lips were distorted by a malicious grin. 

‘ A rogue, do you mean ? I shouldn’t have gone 
as far as that myself, but no doubt, you know him 
better than I do. I merely meant that he’s a fool 
because he’s brought you here — the folly of which, 
of course, is obvious.’ 

‘ You flatter me.’ 

‘ And you mistake my meaning. It’s folly, 
because I know dear Agnes. There’s only one 
female worth looking at in the theatre where Agnes 
is. That’s an actress. And that you’ll never be. 
You’re not offended ? ’ 

‘ Offended ? ’ 

She could say no more, because her blood was 
boiling. 

‘ I thought you weren’t easy to offend. She’ll 
do it, though. She’ll have you out of this before 
the curtain rises ; or she’ll be out of it herself. 
You see.’ 

He moved away with an air of the most com- 
plete nonchalance, as if he had been uttering the 


4 2 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


merest commonplaces, leaving her in a small 
whirlwind of passion. Mr Harley tapped on the 
table which stood in the centre of the stage. 

‘ Ladies and gentlemen, if you- please ! — Mr 
Basing is going to read his play.’ 

Those who had chairs sat on them. Some one, 
whose name she had not heard, and whose face 
was strange to her, brought her one. He placed 
himself beside her on the floor, crossing his legs 
tailor fashion. He was one of those precocious 
striplings, who are, perhaps, not the least con- 
spicuous product of the contemporary theatre. As 
he settled himself, he whispered to her : — 

' I hate hearing beggars read their plays. I 
can’t think what they do it for — gives me the 
needle. I’ve put you between Basing and me 
because I want to have a chance of forty winks — 
haven’t been to bed for a week.’ 

Leaning his head against her, he seemed to 
prepare at once for a doze. Mr Basing stood up 
behind the table. There was a murmur of 
applause. The youth beside her groaned. 

‘ He’s going to make a speech. Oh, damn it ! ’ 

Mr Basing did give utterance to one or two pre- 
liminary observations, though they hardly amounted 
to a speech. 

4 Before I begin I want you to understand how 


THE SOHO THEATRE 


43 


confident I am that my work could not be in better 
hands. As you are aware, I am about to make an 
attempt to revive the romantic, or, as I prefer to 
call it, the poetic drama. That variety of it which 
has, for its main stay, neither the costumier, the 
scene painter, the stage carpenter, nor the lime- 
light man. I myself am persuaded that the 
thing can be done ; that there is a great popular 
appetite in that direction which is only waiting to 
be gratified. And I am sure of this — that, if the 
thing is to be done, you will help me do it. A 
better company could not be gathered together for 
the especial purpose which I have in view. You 
are all, if you will allow me to say so, my own 
personal selections. If my play is fore-doomed, I 
don’t believe it is, or I shouldn’t be here, but if it 
is, I am certain that it will not be for want of an 
adequate representation. Ladies and gentlemen, 
suffer me to introduce to your notice, and to re- 
quest for it your kindly interest, a poetic play, in 
three acts, written by Philip Basing, entitled, “ A 
Legend of tlie Rhine.” ’ 

In his voice there was a gay tone. That gaiety 
which suggests courage, and which seems in itself, 
to convey the promise of success, which it did Miss 
Vernham good to hear. 


44 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


‘ Soapy/ murmured the youth beside her. * He’ll 
change all that before we get to work.’ 

Mr Basing commenced to read. 

The average historian listens to the reading of a 
play in one of three different ways, he listens to it 
all continuously, or occasionally, when the reader is 
dealing with his own particular part in it, or not at 
all. Fashionable authors, under the aegis of 
fashionable managements, in fashionable theatres, 
when reading their fashionable works to fashion- 
able companies, may arouse, now and then at least, 
the semblance of enthusiasm. The other sort do 
not, never, or hardly ever. Professional people do 
not like plays as a whole, why should they ? They 
only like their own parts in them. And some- 
times they do not like those. At a 1 reading/ the 
‘struggling’ dramatist, who believes in himself, his 
work, his mission, or in anything at all, has an en- 
joyable time of it. 

Philip Basing read well, especially at first. He 
had a sympathetic voice ; his elocution was good, 
and he had the histrionic knack of seeming to 
feel what he was reading. But at the end of the 
first act people looked at their watches. That first 
act seemed long. 

The reader, quick to perceive what was in the 


THE SOHO THEATRE 


45 


air, gave the general feeling voice, as it were, to 
excuse himself. 

‘You understand that the play, as it stands, is 
merely tentative. When it comes to practise, I 
daresay, it will be found that some of the speeches 
want cutting.’ 

Mr Harley, with that candour which a stage 
manager ought to, and must, cherish, if he wishes 
to be worth his salt, proved himself to be more 
completely in accord with this suggestion than the 
speaker perhaps desired. 

‘ They’ll want a lot of cutting. Why, one speech 
of Elsa’s lasted pretty well five minutes. They 
won’t stand that.’ 

* Hardly so long as that, I think. You mean 
the one in which she explains the difficulty she 
has in deciding which of her two suitors has her 
greater love? I rather like that speech — don’t 
you?’ 

The question was directed to Miss Graham. 
Elsa was the heroine — she was to play her. 

‘ It is long. I am afraid I shall find it fatiguing.’ 

The dramatist looked a trifle blank. 

‘I thought you liked it. When you read it in 
manuscript you said you did.’ 

The lady smiled prettily ; she shook her head. 

‘ In manuscript ! In manuscript it is different.’ 


46 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


‘Do you know/ persisted Mr Harley, ‘that it 
took you more than an hour to read that act ? ’ 

‘ No ! — so long as that ? ’ 

‘ A good deal more than an hour, I should think.* 
This was Rayment. Harley put a question. 

‘ Are the other two acts long ones ? ’ 

Mr Basing was turning over the leaves of his 
manuscript 

f The next is shorter.’ 

‘ It’ll have to be a good deal shorter.’ 

In spite of his assertion, it did not seem to be 
much shorter ; perhaps that was because the high 
spirits with which he had started were a trifle 
dashed. He did not read so well either as he had 
done at the beginning. To keep himself up to 
concert pitch, a reader, especially of his work, must 
feel that his hearers are with him ; if he feels they 
are not, he soon runs down. 

The close of the second act was followed by a 
silence which was almost ominous. Basing did 
his best to relieve it by asking, in a tone which 
was meant to be cheerful — 

‘Well, Harley — how long was that?’ 

The answer was short and to the point. 

‘Over an hour. It will take two to act.’ 

‘ Harley ! — Come ! — It’s not so bad as that.’ 
‘Perhaps, Basing/ suggested Rayment, ‘you’re 


THE SOHO THEATRE 


47 


proposing to introduce the Chinese system, and 
act different parts of the play on different 
nights ? * 

The young dramatist’s laugh was shaky. 

‘Thanks, Rayment. That’s kind of you.’ He 
was hesitatingly fingering the paper of his manu- 
script. ‘ I’m afraid that the third act is long. 
Perhaps I’d better cut it as I go on.’ 

‘ I don’t think I would if I were you. You’d 
better let us have it all, and then we shall know 
how much there is worth keeping.’ 

This, again, was Mr Rayment. Basing bit his 
lip ; he was plainly nettled. This was not at all 
the sort of reception he had anticipated that his 
work would receive. His boyish sanguine nature, 
suffered temporary paralysis. When he spoke 
again his voice was tremulous. 

c Perhaps I shall better meet the wishes of this 
company by postponing the reading of the third 
act to a future occasion.’ 

John Tullet came to his assistance with a grace- 
ful courtesy for which Miss Vernham could have 
thanked him — as if he had done it for her. She 
was all of a tremor. She had a fellow feeling 
for Philip Basing. 

‘ If you are tired, let me finish it for you. Will 
you ? — do ! ’ 


4 8 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


* It is not so much that I am tired, as that I 
fear you are.’ 

‘My dear fellow, I have oftentimes been most 
tired by just those plays which, afterwards, have 
been most successful. We expect to be tired — 
it is part of our business. We are not here on a 
party of pleasure. 5 

Mr Tullett, having led the way in sounding a 
note of sympathy, others followed him, and 
encouraged, Philip Basing continued his reading 
to the end — which end, with the best will in the 
world, his auditors could not but recognise was 
a terrible time in coming. 


CHAPTER VI 
THE DRAMATIST’S WIFE 

* I BEG your pardon, but — would you mind tell- 
ing me — are you engaged at the Soho Theatre? 
For the new piece, “A Legend of the Rhine,” I 
mean.’ 

The inquirer was a woman. Miss Vernham 
was standing in the street outside her lodging. 
As she was returning from the theatre she had 
been conscious that a woman was behind, keeping 
step, it almost seemed ; now it appeared she had 
been following her. She was a young woman, 
not badly dressed, with simple, childlike face, and 
shy brown eyes. And in her arms she had a 
baby. 

* I am. May I ask why you inquire ? ’ 

The other flushed ; her face went hot all over. 
Tears glinted in her eyes. 

‘ May I speak to you ? I am Mrs Basing — 

D 


So ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

Philip Basing’s wife, you know — the author of 
the play.’ 

‘You are Mrs Basing?’ 

It seemed a curious way of introducing herself. 
Miss Vernham hardly knew what to make of it 
She hesitated. 

‘ I am afraid I have not a very grand apartment 
to which to ask a visitor, but — will you come in ? ’ 

‘ I should like to, very much.’ 

The two women went together into Miss Vern- 
ham’s parlour. Directly they entered the stranger 
broke into speech, in a nervous, eager, half 
blundering fashion, which, to the actress’ thinking, 
had in it something pathetic. 

‘You will think my conduct very strange — I 
know it is — I have followed you all the way from 
the theatre. You see, I am so anxious/ 

* I suppose we are all of us anxious.’ 

Her answer seemed to take the other by sur- 
prise. 

‘ Are you anxious for the success of the play ? ’ 

‘Of course I am. Its success may mean mine. 
I assure you that I am very much in want of 
some of the good things which success implies.’ 

‘ 1 see.’ The stranger regarded her gravely. 
<What is your name?’ 

Ada Vernham.’ 


THE DRAMATIST’S WIFE 51 

‘Ada Vernham?’ Her face lit up with a quick 
smile. ‘ My husband told me about you. You 
are the beautiful person whom he saw in Wales.’ 
She paused — it seemed for inspection. ‘Philip’s 
opinion of a woman’s face may generally be 
relied on. You are as lovely as he said, and — 
something else.’ 

‘ What’s that ? ’ 

‘Kind.’ The speaker’s manner was so naive 
that Miss Vernham laughed outright. The other 
smiled amidst her blushes. ‘ Why do you laugh at 
me? You are kind, or you would not let me come 
in here. May I sit down ? I’m a very little tired, 
baby gets heavy after you’ve been carrying him a 
time.’ 

‘Of course you may sit down. I ought to be 
ashamed of myself for having left you standing.’ 
She went and knelt beside the chair on which 
the other had placed herself. ‘ Is this your 
baby ? ’ 

‘Yes, Philip’s and mine. He’ll be ten months 
old next week. He’s so good, he scarcely ever 
cries, and sometimes, when you speak to him, he 
laughs out quite loud. ‘ I’m afraid ’ — there was a 
break in her voice — ‘ he’s not quite well just now. 
I don’t think he’s very strong.’ 

They fell to baby talk. And, in a few minutes, 


52 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


were as if they had known each other for years. 
Suddenly the visitor gave an exclamation. 

‘But I haven’t come to gabble away like this, 
although it’s very nice of you to let me, and — and 
I like to talk about my baby. But it’s something 
else I want to talk about. I suppose you have 
been hearing Philip read his play. 

Miss Vernham nodded. 

* What do you think of it ? * 

‘ My dear child, I am not a critic, that I should 
sit in judgment on a play.’ 

‘I see. Is it so bad as that?’ All the light 
went out of the speaker’s face. She drew her baby 
closer to her, as if to hold him safer. She rose 
from her seat. For some reason a wave of 
emotion seemed to rise within her to master her, 
and compel her to the utterance of thoughts which 
came from her most secret places. 

‘ Philip thinks so much of his plays ; that there 
is nothing like them, he is so clever. And he 
particularly believes in “ A Legend of the Rhine,” 
he has dreamed such dreams of it — such dreams ! 
And, we are so poor ! ’ 

* Are you poor too ? ’ 

‘Indeed. It is his brother who is rich, not 
Philip. His brother is in the city, and Philip 
writes. All people who write seem poor. I don’t 


THE DRAMATIST’S WIFE 


53 


know why. It is his brother who is giving him 
the money to produce the play. It is very good of 
him, because I don’t believe that he cares for Philip 
much, or for plays. And if it succeeds it will 
mean so much to us, it will be like a fairy tale ; I 
cannot tell you all that we are going to do. And, 
if it fails, I don’t know what will become of us, 
especially of Philip. I don’t think he can bear 
disappointment. Perhaps that’s because I am 
more used to it.’ 

‘ Does custom enable one to bear it better ? Do 
you know that you and I appear to be in much the 
same sort of boat.’ 

* Are you used to disappointment ? ’ 

‘As you say, indeed! If “A Legend of the 
Rhine” does fail I don’t know what will become 
of me. Mr Basing found me out on one of 
the blackest of my black days. When he offered 
me an engagement he turned it into one of my 
brightest. I have been living during the last few 
months I don’t know how. I dare not think of it.’ 

She got up from the floor on which she had con- 
tinued kneeling. Some sort of internal spasm 
seemed to choke her utterance. Something came 
into her face which made her seem almost like a 
different creature. The expression of her mouth, 
and of her eyes, hardened. When she spoke again 
her voice sounded deep and husky. 


54 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


* I have been looking forward to the commence- 
ment of this engagement as the pilgrim looks for- 
ward to his entrance into the promised land. As 
Mr Basing has done. I, too, have dreamed dreams, 
and, like his, such dreams. I have been hoping 
that it would be the beginning of the end of my 
struggles to keep body and soul together by means 
which are not becoming to a woman. And if it 
fails I can’t say that I don’t know what will become 
of me, because I do ; I have had previous experi- 
ence ; but, God help me if it fails ! ’ 

She had crossed to the mantelpiece, and was 
standing with her back turned towards her visitor. 
There was silence. Then Mrs Basing, with that 
folly of the foolish, which, sometimes may be better 
than the wisdom of the wise, went to her, holding 
out her infant. 

‘ Kiss baby. It will do you good. It often does 
me good when there’s nothing else that can.’ 

Miss Vernham turned quickly, caught the child 
from its mother’s arms, and smothered it with 
kisses, as women will. Then held it at arm’s length, 
regarding it. 

‘ Why, it’s laughing at me ! The little rogue ! 
The pet ! ’ 

Then came another avalanche. After which 
episode the two women settled down into con- 


THE DRAMATIST’S WIFE 


55 


versation, Miss Vernham retaining the baby. It 
was Mrs Basing who spoke. She seemed to be one 
of those women, who are by nature, by education, 
children ; and who are thrown on to the world to 
learn in its hard school, bitter lessons which they 
assimilate in their own peculiar fashion. She was 
slightly, even daintily moulded ; a little thing, for 
whom life, one would have thought, should have 
been a continual spring; which it was not. Her 
every movement, her every look, her every word, 
seemed to be pregnant with the shadow of a great 
anxiety, which was eating at her very heartsprings, 
and which, although she often smiled, she was 
powerless to hide. 

‘You musn’t tell Philip I’ve been here, he is so 
good to me, he is all I have, except baby. He has 
his work. He think’s I’m over anxious, and I’m 
afraid sometimes I anger him. But,’ she flushed, 
‘ I’m expecting another baby, and I want to know, 
as well as I can, what’s coming. I want to be pre- 
pared. I think it’s better to be prepared even 
when what is coming isn’t very good, don’t you ? 
You understand that I know it’s a good play, 
myself, but, I’m not everybody, and of course, 
Philip sees with his own eyes, and he’s so clever, and 
I think he only likes to look forward to the best. I 
want to know what some one else thinks, whom I 
can trust. Tell me, truly.’ 


56 ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

‘But it really is a fact that I’m no critic of a 
play.’ 

‘No?’ Again the eager face went blank. ‘Is 
it really so bad as that ? ’ 

Miss Vernham, dandling the baby up and down 
in the air, laughed. 

‘ If you’re always so quick to look at the worst 
side of things, I don’t wonder that Philip, as you 
call him, gets angry. It’s impossible to tell, 
merely from hearing a play read, what it will 
be like when presented on the stage. There’s 
some splendid stuff in “ A Legend on the Rhine,” 
that I do know.’ 

‘Yes? What is the worst thing that is wrong 
with it?’ 

‘Well, it’s too long.’ 

‘ Oh ! I thought myself it was a little ; but when 
I hinted it to Philip he wasn’t pleased. You see, 
he hasn’t a great opinion of my judgment, and, of 
course, he’s right. What did the other people 
think of it?’ 

‘ How on earth am I to tell ? I don’t know one 
of them ; they’re all much more important persons 
than I am, and not at all likely to make me the 
subject of their confidence, they’re much more 
likely to snub me. But I tell you this, Mr Basing 
has some of the cleverest people he could possibly 


THE DRAMATISTS WIFE 


57 


have got, they know their business, and by the 
time the play is ship-shape — which it will be with 
half-a-dozen touches — they’ll make it go like a 
house on fire.’ 

‘ I don’t like Miss Graham.’ 

‘She’s a very clever actress, and a popular 
favourite, if the play is to be pulled out of the 
fire, she will do it.’ 

‘You do think it will want pulling out of the 
fire ? ’ 

‘There never was a play yet which didn’t. 
I don’t know much about these things, I really 
don’t, but I doubt if there ever was a play which 
didn’t have to be altered before production. 
Listen to me, you’re not to worry ; it’s bad for you, 
bad for Mr Basing, and bad for me.’ 

‘You’re to play Emma?’ 

‘Yes, and although it’s much too good a part 
for a person of my capacity, I don’t want to feel 
that, in your opinion, I’m fore-doomed to failure.’ 

‘ That I’m sure you’re not. I wish you were 
going to play Elsa, and not Miss Graham.’ 

‘ Elsa ! me ! you goose ! I could no more play 
Elsa than I could fly. I’m a perfect stick upon 
the stage. Everyone agrees that, as an actress, 
my face and figure are all I have to recommend 
me.’ 


58 ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

* It’s not true. I know better. I believe in 
you.’ 

‘You — believe in me? You simple soul! 
Miss Vernham turned away, the baby in her arms. 

‘ There never was a play produced, behind which 
there were not many anxious hearts, many who 
did not know what they should do if it were a 
failure, and the better they concealed their anxiety, 
the better were its chances of success. To be 
fearful of failure is the shortest cut to it. Mr 
Basing is right ; he shows his wisdom in antici- 
pating nothing but success ; to be certain that you 
are on the road to success is to be half-way there. 
Now you must have some tea, — I am dreadfully 
remiss.’ 

‘ No, I mustn’t stay. When Philip gets home I 
don’t want him to find me out. You must come 
to see me. If Philip asks you, promise me you’ll 
come. 1 don’t want him to know we’ve met 
already, or — he may draw wrong conclusions. 
But I shall tell him I should like to know Miss 
Vernham, and he’ll ask you to come and see me, — 
he always does everything I want him too.* 

‘ If he asks me, I will come/ 

* And you don’t think the play is bound to fail ? ’ 

‘ Bound to fail ! Are you a lineal descendant of 

Cassandra? I think that it’s bound to succeed; 


THE DRAMATIST’S WIFE 


59 


that even the hydra headed public — that’s the 
proper way in which to speak of it — will be made 
to understand that a magnificent thing is being 
offered it, and then you’ll be ashamed of yourself 
for ever having doubted.’ 

With a quick impulsive movement Mrs Basing 
kissed Miss Vernham. The actress seemed to 
shudder ; as she turned away, in her eyes were 
tears. The singularity of her demeanour went 
unnoticed, perhaps because the visitor’s eyes were 
also dimmed. As the mother took her baby from 
the other’s unresisting arms she said, with some- 
thing of a choking in her voice : — 

‘ If ever there was a good woman, you are one — 
I know you are.’ 


CHAPTER VII 


REHEARSING 

‘Why don’t you take your cues up quicker?’ Miss 
Graham turned upon Miss Vernham with a sudden 
burst which seemed to disconcert her. ‘ What do 
you suppose I am to do while you are fumbling 
with your business ? Are you doing your best to 
spoil my scene ? ’ 

‘ I beg your pardon, but you have not given me 
my cue. My cue is, “for there are hearts which 
have to die to live.” ’ 

The air of calmness with which Miss Vernham 
replied to the assault seemed to cause the other 
annoyance. She gave a contemptuous gesture. 

‘ Oh, that’s cut.’ 

‘I was not aware of it; it’s the first time I’ve 
been told.’ 

Miss Graham turned on Mr Harley. 

‘You hear what she says — is that your idea of 


REHEARSING 


61 


a stage management? You hack me all to pieces, 
and then you don’t even pay me the poor compli- 
ment of letting the other people know what you 
have done to me.’ 

Mr Harley held out his hand to Miss Vernham. 

‘ Give me your stuff ; I’ll mark it now. Awfully 
sorry, Miss Graham, but I thought I had marked 
it ; even the best of stage-managers, like the best 
of actresses, will slip now and then.’ 

Miss Vernham gave Mr Harley the typewritten 
slips of her part ; he was about to make the 
alteration when Mr Basing interposed, with, in his 
manner, something a little ominous. 

‘Excuse me, Harley, but, like Miss Vernham, I 
was unaware that any change had been made. 
May I ask what it is you have done.’ 

Mr Harley moistened the end of his pencil with 
his lips, running his eyes over the sheet he was 
holding with apparently sublime unconsciousness 
of there being anything peculiar in the other’s 
manner. 

‘ Only cut some lines out of Elsa’s speech.’ 

The peculiarity in Mr Basing’s bearing was 
obviously not lessened by the other’s seeming. 

‘ Only ? I see ! May I ask who authorised you 
to do so ? * 


62 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


Mr Harley glanced up with an air of innocent 
amazement 

* Authorised ? My dear chap ! I did it in the 
ordinary course of business.’ 

‘ In the extraordinary course of business, I should 
suppose you mean.’ Mr Basing referred to the 
manuscript he was holding. ‘ You have, on your 
own initiative, struck out fifteen lines, without 
apparently thinking it necessary in any way to 
refer to me. Possibly, in the ordinary course of 
business, you will strike out the entire dialogue, 
and leave nothing but pantomime — also without 
referring to me.’ 

Mr Harley shrugged his shoulders. 

‘ I thought that we had settled that there wasn’t 
going to be any more of this sort of thing.’ 

‘ Precisely. And it is because we have settled 
that there is not to be any more of this sort of 
thing, that I don’t intend to allow any. You have 
already hacked my play about to such an extent 
that I scarcely recognise it as my own. I forbid 
you to alter another comma.’ 

‘ You forbid ! ’ Mr Harley smiled in the author’s 
face. ‘ My dear Basing, author’s oughtn’t to attend 
rehearsals. They’re out of place.’ 

‘ That is your opinion. We differ. I intend to 
have my play produced, and not the mangled 


REHEARSING 63 

torso which you choose to allow the public to 
associate with me.’ 

‘ What have you engaged me for ? * 

‘To see that my ideas are properly carried out.’ 

‘ Pah ! ’ Mr Harley gave utterance to an 
exclamation of scorn. ‘ If what you call your 
ideas are carried out, there’ll be a smash. My 
reputation won’t suffer, or my purse ; the public 
won’t hold me responsible for a display of amateurs 
on the rampage. 

Mr Basing turned to Miss Graham, his eyes 
gleamed, his cheeks flushed. 

‘ May I ask you to reinstate these fifteen lines, 
and to give Miss Vernham the same cue as on 
previous occasions.’ 

The lady did not seem to be well pleased. 

‘ Really, Mr Basing, I am not used to be treated 
in this fashion. How many masters are there in 
this theatre ? And which is to be obeyed ? ’ 

‘ I am the manager, I have engaged you, and 
my requirements I must ask you to favour with 
your attention, and mine only.’ 

The lady sank into a chair, as if exhausted. 

‘ The trouble is that I am beginning to fear that 
your requirements are beyond me altogether.’ 

‘ Is the rehearsal over? May a hungry man go 
and eat a chop? ’ 


6 4 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


The speaker was Mr Rayment. He, with the 
other members of the company, had been more or 
less interested spectators of the little interchange 
of compliments. 

‘The rehearsal is not over. With your pet 
mission we will take it again from the begin- 
ning of the act. I am sorry to detain you, but 1 
should like to have this act in shape before we 
finish.’ 

‘ Whose play are we rehearsing, yours or 
Harleys?’ 

The speaker still was Rayment, the question 
plainly being asked with malice prepense. 

‘ It is my play which you are rehearsing, Mr 
Rayment, what Mr Harley has left of it.’ 

‘ I see, Harley’s notion of the survival of the 
fittest. We’ve been rehearsing three or four 
different plays since we started, and — it is a little 
confusing.’ 

‘ I will take this opportunity to remark, ladies 
and gentlemen — that the present condition of the 
play is final, absolutely! It will be produced 
exactly as it stands. Nothing will be changed.’ 

‘ Not even the spelling? There’s a word in my 
part mis-spelt.’ 

Once more Rayment. Mr Basing vouchsafed 
him no attention. 


REHEARSING 65 

‘ Now, ladies and gentlemen, let us begin the 
act again — if you please.’ 

All eyes were turned to Miss Graham, who, 
remaining seated, put her hand up to her head. 

‘ I am afraid it is more than I can manage, you 
will have to leave me out.’ 

* That is impossible.’ 

Mr Basing’s curtness seemed to nettle the lady 
very much indeed. 

4 You will have to continue the rehearsal without 
me, whether it is possible or not.’ 

Mr Basing compressed his lips, as if to keep 
back angry words. 

‘You must allow me to remind you that, 
although the date of the production is distant 
little more than a week, the play is still wholly 
shapeless.’ 

‘ And whose fault is that ? What Mr Rayment 
says is literally correct, you expect us to rehearse 
half-a-dozen plays in less time than is sufficient for 
one. Postpone the date of production.’ 

‘ That I cannot do.’ 

‘Then, in that case, the responsibility is yours — 
you should have written your play before we 
began to rehearse it.’ 

Mr Basing seemed to be at a deadlock — as 
if, for the moment, the position was beyond 

E 


66 ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

his strength. Miss Vernham ventured on a 
suggestion. 

‘ Don’t you think that, just this once, we might 
manage without Miss Graham, if you were to read 
her lines.’ 

Miss Graham was hard to please, the proposal 
did not increase her satisfaction. Her rejoinder 
was sufficiently spiteful. 

‘Or Miss Vernham might read what she is so 
good as to call my lines, herself ; of course Miss 
Vernham might do anything.’ 

John Tullett threw himself into the breach; he 
put a question to the lady point blank. 

‘ Are you or are you not going to rehearse ? ’ 

She hesitated. 

‘My dear Mr Tullett, I am tired out and out, 
mentally, morally, physically, and cannot.’ 

Mr Tullet was suavity itself — the hand of steel 
under the silken glove. 

‘Then, if that is the case, you are wise to 
abstain. Basing, don’t you think that you might 
stand for Miss Graham? Hadn’t we better go 
on without any further waste of time ? ’ 

They went on, and the lady succumbed. The 
rehearsal had only continued a minute or two 
without her, when she interposed. 

‘ I don’t wish to make myself unpleasant, I will 


REHEARSING 67 

do my best if you will overlook any shortcomings 
which may be owing to physical disability.’ 

She did her best. The result of which was that, 
ere long, the proceedings were brought into a 
condition of something very like chaos. Matters 
went with tolerable smoothness so long as she had 
no immediate concern with them ; directly she 
figured on the scene there were discussions. Mr 
Basing, who had taken upon himself to act as 
prompter, occasionally interrupted to suggest 
amendations in her rendering of the text, to her 
evident annoyance. 

‘ May I ask you not to interrupt me, Mr Basing. 
I don’t pretend to be letter perfect.’ 

‘ That is sufficiently obvious ? what is it you are 
reading from ? ’ 

‘ My part.’ 

‘ Will you let me look at it ? * She gave him 
the crumpled sheets. He glanced over them, 
with flushing cheeks. ‘ This won’t do, Miss 
Graham, it really won’t. The part, when it was 
given you, was in the form in which I had finally 
decided it should be acted. Who is responsible 
for this re-hashing?’ 

‘The corrections are partly mine, and partly 
Mr Harley’s.’ 

‘Corrections! On what grounds do you pre- 


68 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


sume to correct my work, to constitute yourself 
its editor? I have been engaged upon this play 
for many months ; I have re-written and re- 
written it ; I have brought it to that condition 
in which, as it seemed to me, it came nearest to 
what I intended it should be. I take a theatre, 
I retain a company, specially to produce my play. 
And, hardly have I done so, than certain members 
of the company — and particularly you ! — evince a 
strong inclination to produce something, which, 
whatever else it may be, is not my play. You 
misunderstand the position. You were not en- 
gaged to criticise, still less to edit my work ; 
you were engaged to act it, and for that only. 
Be so good as to keep to the letter of the bond. 
I can only characterise this sort of thing/ he 
held up the manuscript the lady had given him, 
‘as impertinence. I will see that another copy 
of the part which you have been engaged to act, 
is furnished you without delay. Kindly don’t 
mutilate it again.’ 

Tearing the manuscript into shreds, he dropped 
them on to the floor. His words and action were 
followed by murmurs. John Tullett taking it 
upon himself to give them tongue. 

Basing, I am of opinion that you are right, 
and, I take leave, Miss Graham, to say that you 


REHEARSING 


69 


are wrong. You are taking advantage of Basing’s 
position and want of experience. If he pays the 
piper, you certainly have no right to call the 
tune. And it has always seemed to me that an 
artiste ought not to step outside a contract.’ 

The lady looked first at one, and then at the 
other of her assailants ; with the apparent in- 
tention of snubbing Mr Basing, she turned her 
back in his direction. She addressed herself to 
Mr Tullett. 

‘You know as well as I do that what I have 
done has been wholly for the best. Mr Basing 
may be clever, but of the practical side of his 
trade he knows absolutely nothing. It has been 
Mr Harley’s sole endeavour, as it has been mine, 
to save him from himself.’ 

Mr Basing declined to be snubbed, and he 
answered her, not with the best of temper, and 
with still less taste. 

‘ But, my good lady, it was not to save me from 
myself that I engaged you, still less was it with 
the idea of your acting vicariously, the part of 
careful grandmamma.’ There were audible smiles, 
at the sounds of which the lady paled. ‘As for 
Harley, Harley is a good stage manager. A stage 
manager, as I understand it, is a sort of superior 
mechanic. In general, he is about as good a 


70 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


judge of a play as Harley is.’ He turned towards 
Mr Harley with sudden fury. ‘ Look here, Harley, 
I engaged you, at a big salary, to do certain work. 
Up to this, that work has given me anything but 
satisfaction, if you don’t soon begin to show your- 
self to be better worth the money, there’ll be 
trouble.’ 

Mr Harley had been perched on the edge of a 
table, dangling his feet in the air, as if the pro- 
ceedings had no interest for him. Mr Basing’s 
words recalled him to terra firma , he dropped on 
to his feet; he thrust his hands into his trousers 
pockets ; he went red in the face, and he made 
one or two remarks in return. 

‘ Hoity-toity ! Aren’t we growing ! Why, boy, 
you might be a man ! If I haven’t forgotten more 
about plays than you ever knew, or than you’re 
ever likely to know, I deserve to be whipped. 
You can have a smash up for all I care, what 
difference do you suppose it makes to me? You’re 
the sort of coxy bird who wants two or three 
good smash ups to take the conceit half out of 
him.’ 

While Mr Basing, judging from appearances, 
was still hesitating whether or not to make an end 
of his stage manager, Miss Graham had her say. 
She stood with her shoulder slightly hunched, her 


REHEARSING 


7i 

head a little forward, her cheeks pale, with some- 
thing in the set of her jaw which was merciless 
and cruel. Those who knew her were aware that 
she was going to be nasty, as she well knew how 
to be ; and she was. She uttered her words with 
a cold, clear precision, which, as one could see 
from the way in which he shrunk from them, 
caused them to sting the dramatist as if they had 
been drops of vitriol. 

‘ Since the moment of candour appears to have 
arrived, you shall have my candid opinion of your 
play. It contains the germ of a good idea, 
nothing else. In its original state it was un- 
actable, as all who are present know well, although 
it may suit them, at the moment, to conceal their 
knowledge. After constant appeals to what we 
will call, for courtesy’s sake, your common sense, 
it has been brought within the regions of actability. 
But it will never succeed — never! It is a poor 
play, at best — badly written, badly constructed 
with no characterisation, and without one single 
really dramatic moment ; it is words, nothing but 
words, and, for the most part, undistinguished, 
ill-chosen words. In short, of a good idea you 
have made interminable fustian. I am but giving 
you a foretaste of the judgment which the critics 
will pass upon “ A Legend of the Rhine,” if ever 


72 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


it attains production, which I am inclined to doubt. 
And I have the pleasure, Mr Basing, of wishing 
you good-day/ 

She moved across the stage. 

Aren’t you going to continue the rehearsal ? ’ 

This was Rayment. Pausing at the wing, she 
took advantage of the inquiry to hurl a parting 
shot at Philip Basing. 

‘Am I going to continue the rehearsal? My 
good Mr Rayment, Mr Basing’s tearing up my 
part signified the termination of my contract — 
a termination which I accept with pleasure. Per- 
haps Miss Vernham will take my place.’ 

She went out and no one said her nay. The 
silence which followed her exit was broken by 
Mr Harley in what he possibly intended to be 
dramatic fashion. Knocking over the table on 
which he had been perched, he kicked it when 
it was on the ground. 

‘By gum, if I don’t take myself off with her. 
Pm not so hard up for a shop that I should want 
to mix myself up with a lot of amateur twaddle 
which would be a disgrace to the Theatre Royal 
Back Drawing-room. Ta-ta, Basing, you’ll have 
to see if you can’t get some other fellow to lift 
that tommy-rot of yours out of the mud. It’ll 
want a lot of lifting.’ 


REHEARSING 


73 


Mr Harley paused, as if to give Mr Basing an 
opportunity to say, or to do, something. But 
Philip Basing did not seem to have heard what 
the other had been saying, or he surely would 
have shown some sign of resentment. He stood 
motionless, speechless, staring at the wing through 
which Miss Graham had vanished. 

Finding that his observations, as well as himself, 
appeared to go unnoticed, Mr Harley betook him- 
self to the same wing, turning, when he reached 
it, as she had done, to address the assembled 
company. 

‘Good-bye, little girls and boys, this is my last 
performance on this stage, and you won’t be long 
after me, either. Your appearance in “A Legend 
of the Rhine” will be for one night only. It’ll 
never reach a second show, if it gets as far as 
a first.’ 

And Mr Harley went after Miss Graham. 


CHAPTER VIII 


TWO REQUESTS 

On the following day there was no rehearsal ; and 
about noon, as Ada Vernham was seated in her 
parlour, Mr Basing was announced. 

She was trying to take enough interest in some 
needlework to enable her to divert her mind from 
the thoughts which, whether she would or would 
not, came surging into it, and in that endeavour 
she was failing ; but, as Basing came into the 
room, with that odd intuition which causes some 
women to realise other people’s sorrows more 
clearly even than they do their own, she perceived 
that the man was hard hit, and in a second his 
troubles were, so to speak, superimposed on hers, 
so that, being at the bottom for the moment, her 
own were hidden. 

He said nothing as he entered. He went 
straight to the mantelpiece, and leaning his elbow 


TWO REQUESTS 


75 


on the shelf, stood looking down into the fireless 
grate. There was something in his face which 
made her heart go sick. 

‘ How is Mrs Basing?’ 

The man’s wife, and her little baby, had been 
with her all through the night 

* Poor little thing.’ 

That was all he said, but it was enough to tell 
her how the woman had suffered. Since he 
seemed resolved to continue silent, she made an 
effort to broach the subject on which something, 
which made her heart stand still, seemed to tell 
her he had come. 

‘ Well, what’s the news ? ’ 

‘ I’ve come to ask you to play Elsa.’ 

Something seemed to snap within her, — to 
suspend her breathing. She looked at him as if 
he had struck her a blow ; while he, on his part, 
looked almost as if he had. With hang-dog face 
he stared into the empty grate. 

‘ I can’t! I cannot! You know I can’t.’ 

‘ You must.’ 

‘ I can’t, I won’t. You mustn’t ask me. 

‘ Miss Vernham, I say you must.’ He looked at 
her now, and it was curious to notice what a change 
the last few days, and particularly the last four 
and twenty hours had made in him. He was one 


76 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


of those men who show their worries not only in 
their faces and in their bearing, but even in their 
clothing. His clothes seemed to have been put 
on anyhow ; his necktie was askew, his coat was 
creased, his hat unbrushed, his boots ill polished. 
A small bone seemed to have been taken out of 
his back, so as to prevent him holding himself 
erect, as he was wont to do. He had cut himself 
whilst shaving, the flesh had gone out of his 
cheeks, they seemed hollow ; the corners of his 
mouth were drawn down like a child’s, he looked 
as if he were on the verge of tears ; his eyes were 
bloodshot, it was plain that he had been crying. 
His voice was hoarse. He looked like a person 
who had endured a great loss — a loss which had 
not even left him in the possession of his dignity. 

‘You don’t suppose that I should have come to 
you if I could have helped it? It’s a question of 
Hobson’s choice. I’ve been to every woman in 
town I could think of, and have been hawking the 
part about from pillar to post. They can none of 
them accept it, or they won’t, God knows which it 
is. You will have to.’ 

‘ I can’t.’ 

‘ Don’t I tell you that you’ll have to, unless you 
wish to see me ruined, body, soul, and spirit, and I 
don’t believe you do that.’ 


TWO REQUESTS 


77 


* It isn't fair to talk to me like that — it isn’t. If 
you were to go to Miss Graham, I believe that she 
would take up the part again ; she only threw it 
up because she was in a temper ; in fact, you could 
make her.’ 

‘ I don’t believe she would if I were to go down 
on my knees to her, and I wouldn’t ask her to save 
myself from execution. Listen to me. So far as 
looks are concerned, there can be no doubt, what- 
ever, that you look the part infinitely better than 
Agnes Graham.’ 

‘ Oh, my looks ! It has always been my looks ! 
They have been dinned into my ears since I was a 
child. They have become my bane ! I wish I had 
been hideous.’ 

He smiled queerly. 

‘ The point is, since you are not hideous, that we 
must deal with the situation as we have it. As I 
have said, in the matter of looks you are un- 
doubtedly better suited to the part than Graham — 
stop, let me finish. As regards acting, I honestly 
believe that you underrate your powers, as is seldom 
the case with the actresses I have come across, you 
believe in yourself too little, you are even fearful of 
your own capacity, I think that, if you are 
brought to the sticking point, you will do much 
better than you suppose.’ 


78 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


‘ There are Miss Drew, Miss Macey, Miss Grail/ 
she named some of the other members of the 
company. ‘ They would all do much better than 
I should.’ 

‘ That is a matter of opinion. In my judgment 
you are wrong. At any rate, I am willing to en- 
trust the part to you, I am not to them ; having 
no intention of committing suicide with my eyes 
open.’ 

‘ But,’ she spoke slowly, as if the words were 
being dragged from her by force, ‘ if I were to play 
Elsa, the production of the play would have to be 
postponed.’ 

‘ Not a day, not an hour. I can’t postpone it, for 
reasons which I am ready to explain to you, unless 
it is postponed for ever.’ 

She looked up at him in unmistakable amaze- 
ment. 

‘ Do you think that I can learn and rehearse the 
part so as to be ready to act it in a week ? ’ 

‘ I do. I believe that you know a good deal of 
it already, I’ve noticed that you are an amazingly 
quick study. As for rehearsing, you’ve been re- 
hearsing it with Graham, and that’s the same as if 
you had been rehearsing it yourself.’ 

Miss Vernham drew a long breath ; she put her 
hands up to her throbbing temples. 


TWO REQUESTS 


79 


‘ I tell you, truthfully, that if I do try to play 
the part, I am perfectly persuaded I shall fail.’ 
He shrugged his shoulders. 

‘You seem to have a constitutional trick of 
anticipating the worst, it’s a mistake/ 

‘ I don’t think it’s constitutional ; it has been 
beaten into me by experience. I always do get 
the worst, even if I don’t anticipate it. Every 
one who has anything to do with me, is unlucky. 
I am telling you the plain truth/ 

Mr Basing fidgetted. 

Nonsense! — I tell you one thing, Lily believes 
in you ; she has been of opinion, all along, that 
you could play Elsa better than Graham.’ 

‘ Mrs Basing ? What does Mrs Basing know 
about it? She has never seen me act. For 
some reason, Mrs Basing has a better opinion of 
me altogether than I deserve/ 

* I’m not -so sure of that. Lily has a keener 
nose than you may perhaps imagine. I think 
it is quite probable that she scents the actress 
in you better than you do yourself. Anyhow, I 
will put the matter to you plainly. If you won’t 
play Elsa, as Lily wishes, and as I wish you 
then the wife and I are ruined. There is the 
position for you in a nutshell.’ 


8o 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


Again she drew a long breath — like a creature 
who is hard pressed. 

‘ But if I do play it, and fail, you will be ruined 
just as surely.’ 

‘ You won’t fail — make up your mind that you 
will succeed, and you will succeed. Besides, I 
tell you quite frankly, that I don’t believe that 
so beautiful a woman as you are could fail utterly ; 
you’re a lady — which is what the average good- 
looking actress isn’t, and you’re not a fool. With 
such a start you won’t have to do very much to 
romp in an easy winner. As for the play — I’ve 
stood a great deal more from Agnes Graham, 
and her friend Harley, than I ought to have 
done. The sort of thing I have been going 
through has been enough to knock the stuffing 
out of any man. I own that the play was too 
long as it stood at first ; but we’ll act it as it stands 
at present. I’m as good a judge of a play as 
another, and I say it’s a good play, what’s more, 
it’s one which will act itself. If you’ll do as I tell 
you — which was what Graham wouldn’t do ! — 
you’ll steer the play to victory as sure as I am 
standing here.’ 

There was some more talk — chiefly consisting 
of soliloquies from Mr Basing ; then she consented. 
Not with the triumphant air of the actress who 
welcomes the prospect of shining in a more 


TWO REQUESTS 


81 

prominent part than she had ever dared to hope 
for ; but, rather, with the despondent mien of 
the woman who sees her fate in front of her, 
and fears to look at it. Nor, in gaining her 
consent, did Mr Basing’s bearing exhibit many 
more signs of exhilaration than did hers. He 
thanked her, lamely ; while in his manner there 
was an obvious attempt to attain to that full and 
splendid level of sanguine, buoyant certainty 
which had so impressed her when she had seen 
him first. He stood fidgetting with the things 
which were on the mantelpiece, as if he still had 
something to say to her, which he found it 
difficult to say. 

She had risen when he had made an end of 
thanking her, as if she expected him to go. Now, 
as he still lingered, she stood looking at him in- 
quiringly. 

‘ Is there anything else about which you wish to 
talk to me ? ’ 

‘ Well — yes — there is. The truth is I don’t know 
just how I ought to say it.’ 

Although he kept his face turned studiously 
away from her, there was something in his tone 
which made her sink down again upon the chair 
from which she had lately risen, with the feeling 
strong upon her that the worst was yet to come. 

F 


82 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


He stumbled and stuttered in his speech. 

4 As, of course you know, I am a poor man. It 
is my brother who has found me the money with 
which to produce “ A Legend of the Rhine.” He 
advanced me five hundred pounds. I thought it 
would be enough, but the expenses have been 
much heavier than I expected — and — it isn’t/ 

‘Well?’ 

The word came from her almost in a whisper. 

‘ I’ll — rather. If I don’t get more money I shan’t 
be able to produce the piece.’ 

‘Well?’ 

She was wondering, vaguely, if he was about to 
appeal to her for pecuniary assistance. That would 
indeed be to reach the height of the ridiculous. 

‘ I have explained matters to my brother, but — 
he doesn’t understand these things, and — he won’t 
advance another penny. Unless certain payments 
are made, I shan’t be allowed to open the theatre.’ 

As he turned to her, the anxiety which was 
written in vivid characters in every line of his 
countenance lent to him the appearance of pre- 
mature age. ‘ I have had this on my mind all the 
time we have been rehearsing. I have felt, some- 
times, as if the double burden was more than I 
could bear.’ 

* So I should imagine. I almost think, since so 


TWO REQUESTS 


83 


many things are against you, that, if I were you, 
I should let the thing fall through for the time, 
and postpone the production of the piece till a 
more propitious moment.’ 

Her lips went dry, even as she was making the 
suggestion, she could not help but ask herself 
what, in that case, would become of her. It proved 
to be one which he was not at all disposed to 
listen to. 

‘After straining every nerve and every muscle 
of my brain and of my body for all this time to 
bring the thing about. You don’t know what it is 
you’re saying. I must either produce the play 
now, or else go under — for me there is no middle 
course.’ He took his handkerchief out of his 
pocket to wipe the sudden perspiration from his 
brow. A note of resentment came into his voice. 

‘ I am not so helpless as you appear to think. I 
have laid the case before a friend, and I have 
reason to believe that he may be induced to ad- 
vance the sum which I require.’ 

As he paused again, she was wondering more 
and more what all this had to do with her — it 
was just that point which he seemed to find it 
difficult to explain. He might almost have been 
endeavouring to wrap up his meaning in a mist 
of words. 


8 4 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


‘This friend of mine — is much older than I am 
— of the highest social standing, and — a great 
patron of the drama.’ Once more he turned his 
back to her. ‘ I have just come from seeing 
him. I told him — what was quite true — that 
the chief part in my play would be taken by a 
new and very promising actress, who was one 
of the most beautiful women who had been seen 
on the metropolitan stage for many a year. And 
I asked him to call on you.’ 

Her lips were dryer. 

‘ To call on me ? — Why ? ’ 

‘Because I believe that a word from you will 
induce him to do what I require.’ 

‘ Why should it ? ’ 

‘ At least, see him.’ 

Rising from her seat, she moved across the room. 

‘Tell me exactly what it is you wish me to do 
— in plain English.’ 

‘I want you to see this friend of mine, and I 
want you to induce him to let me have the where- 
withal to launch “ A Legend of the Rhine.” ’ 

* I see. And what am I to gain by doing that ? ’ 

‘ I will give you twenty pounds a week to begin 
with ; more if the play succeeds ; and you will 
have the best chance of making a London hit 
you ever will have.’ 


TWO REQUESTS 


85 


There was an interval of silence. It was her 
turn now to turn her back towards him. He 
stood watching her, with something on his face, 
the precise meaning of which was hard to de- 
cipher. 

‘Your friend has money?’ 

‘ He is a man of wealth — yes.’ 

‘ And he is old ? ’ 

‘ He is older than I am — about fifty.’ 

‘Not older than that? — I see.’ 

Another pause ; she was trifling with some 
books which were on a whatnot which stood in 
a corner of the room. ‘ When is he- coming ? ’ 

‘ This evening — I cannot tell you exactly what 
time, but I don’t suppose it will be late. You 
understand that this is a case in which delay 
means ruin. I must have the money, or the 
certainty of getting it, in the course of to-morrow. 
Say that you will see him.’ 

‘ Oh, yes, I will see your friend, if he is good 
enough to call on me.’ 

‘And — that you will induce him to do what I 
require.’ 

‘ My dear Mr Basing, you really ask too much. 
I will do my best for you, but you must not 
estimate my influence unduly.’ 

She was facing him ; she stood with her back 


86 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


against the whatnot, turning the leaves of a book 
over and over with her fingers. He eyed her 
fixedly. 

‘ Remember that my wife’s fate and my fate, 
and — your own fate, hang upon the issue.’ 

‘ I will remember it, I promise you.’ 

When he had gone, going to the mirror which 
was over the mantelpiece, she examined her face 
in it as dispassionately as if it had been another 
woman’s — apostrophising the image which was 
reflected in the glass. ‘ How much harm you have 
done me — and how much more are you going to do 
me? I wonder — I wonder what sort of a woman I 
should have been, and if I should have been 
happier, if I had not had that sort of face which is 
pleasing to a man. How queer it is that I should 
be the happy possessor of that face for which, 
when he sees it in a woman, a certain type of man 
seems willing to sell his soul.’ 

She was still staring at the looking-glass when, 
unannounced, Mrs Basing entered the room with, 
as ever, the baby in her arms. She and the child 
never seemed to be parted, a fact which, it might 
be, was pregnant with meaning. Miss Vernham 
turned with a smile to greet her. 

‘Your presence here is most apropos — your 
husband is scarcely gone.’ 


TWO REQUESTS 


87 


* I wondered if he would have gone.’ She 
looked at the actress with eager straining eyes. 
‘ And — and — are you going to play Elsa ? ’ 

She asked the question as if it had been one 
which was ‘ big with the fate of Rome/ 

‘ I am/ 

A sudden change came over the other’s face, as 
if, a cloud having been rolled away, the sun was 
revealed behind. Regardless of the baby she was 
holding, she threw her arms about Miss Vernham’s 
neck, and, drawing her face down to hers, kissed 
her once, twice, thrice, as an impetuous child might 
have done. 

‘You dear! you darling! If you knew what a 
weight you have lifted off my mind ! If you had 
only seen the state he was in all night. I thought 
my heart would break ! That horrible Miss 
Graham, I always hated her. And all the morn- 
ing I’ve felt that I couldn’t keep still, that I 
couldn’t do anything, and the first possible moment 
I’ve stolen out, and I’ve come to implore you 
to take pity on us in case Philip failed/ 

‘ But he has not failed. He has even succeeded 
in inducing me to promise to see his friend.’ 

‘ His friend ? What friend ? ’ 

‘ Don’t you know ? ’ I thought, since he was 
such a confidential husband, he told you every- 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


thing. But, I suppose, even if I have been guilty 
of an indiscretion, that you will keep my counsel. 
Anyhow, it doesn’t matter. I wish that I were 
like you, and felt that everything matters ; to me 
it seems that nothing does.’ 

‘ Who is this friend of his ? ’ 

Miss Vernham studied the little woman’s eager 
face attentively ; noting how pale it was, and how 
thin, and how it seemed more like a child’s even 
than at first, and how her big eyes seemed to have 
grown bigger, till they had become almost too 
big for their frame ; and how they were filled 
with a curious yearning, as if they were continually 
strained to see something which was not to be 
seen. Then she answered her. 

‘ He has spent all the money which his brother 
gave him to produce his play.’ 

‘ I thought he had ! I was sure of it ! Oh, 
Philip ! ’ 

The little woman’s face went red and white by 
turns. 

‘ But a friend of his is willing to advance him 
more money — indeed all he needs, if I will speak 
a word on his behalf.’ 

‘ A friend ? Is it a man ? ’ 

‘ It is a man, so I am told.’ 

‘ And you will see him ? ’ 


TWO REQUESTS 


89 


‘Yes/ 

‘When?’ 

‘ To-night/ 

‘ How good you are ! How shall we ever thank 
you for all your goodness/ 

‘ You think that I am good— you still think 
so ? How strange it seems/ 

Mrs Basing looked at Ada Vernham as if she 
could not make her out at all. 


CHAPTER IX 


LADY POLHURSTON 

When Mrs Basing left her, Miss Vernham went 
out for a walk in the streets. The longing for 
fresh air was strong upon her ; the streets were 
better than nothing. And, after a while, she found 
herself in Hyde Park. It was a fine afternoon. 
She shrank away from the crowd about the 
Achilles Statue with the uncomfortable feeling 
strong upon her that she was of these people, and 
yet was not, and that they might resent her 
presence there among them. It was years since 
she had been in Rotten Row, and, as she moved 
along it, threading her way among the careless 
saunterers, she found it exercising over her a 
curious fascination. She went up beyond the 
Albert Gate, where the crowd was less, and there, 
at the back of the walk, under the shadow of a 
tree, she treated herself to a pennyworth of chair. 


LADY POLHURSTON 


9i 


The passers by stared at the beautiful woman, 
dressed from head to foot in black, with the big 
picture hat shadowing her lovely face. For hers 
was a face and a figure which would attract 
attention wherever she might be. And some of 
those latter day Don Juans, who would, if they 
could, play the gallant, even of an afternoon in 
Hyde Park, seating themselves, first one, and then 
another, on the vacant chair beside her, tried to 
draw her into conversation. But she was in- 
different to them all. She was sitting there in a 
kind of waking dream, of which the phantasmagoria 
of the passing show was part and parcel. 

So far away was she in the land of her visions, 
that she did not notice what was rather a singular 
incident. An endless line of carriages went sweep- 
ing past her, until at last there came one, close 
against the rails, which was moving only at a 
walking pace, a victoria. A woman was its only 
occupant. She was holding a pair of long handled 
spy glasses, and, through them, she was scanning 
the crowd beneath the trees, as if she was search- 
ing for some particular friend or acquaintance. 
Presently, the chair on which Ada Vernham was 
seated, came within her line of vision, and her 
glance lighted on its occupant. 

As it did so, she behaved in what, considering 


92 ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

the place and the circumstances, was a really 
remarkable manner. Her features had worn the 
expression of languid indifference which is the 
proper London wear, until she chanced upon the 
woman on the seat As she did so, the languor 
and the indifference both vanished from her 
countenance with a celerity which, in its way, 
was comical. She started forward so suddenly 
that she almost tumbled off the seat. And she 
continued to stare at the solitary woman with a 
total disregard of the rudiments of good breeding, 
which certainly ought not to mark the cast of 
Vere de Vere. Even when the carriage had 
passed, she screwed herself round in her seat, 
the better to enable her to prolong her stare. 

The fact that this peculiar behaviour on the part 
of a person who was, presumably, of some respect- 
ability, went completely unnoticed by Miss Vern- 
ham, was sufficient proof that the lady’s thoughts 
were wandering far afield. 

Some short distance off, the victoria stopped. 
Its occupant alighted. She gave some directions 
to the coachman. The vehicle drove away. She 
hesitated, as it was moving off, as if she were 
doubtful what she ought to do ; she glanced 
rapidly about her as if to make sure that no ac- 
quaintances were inconveniently close at hand ; 


LADY POLHURSTON 


93 


then she went, though not too quickly, towards the 
woman she had seen upon the seat. Ada Vernham 
was still upon the chair — and she still was in the 
land of dreams. The stranger took advantage of 
this being so to subject her to a further inspection 
— as if she was not yet quite certain that she was 
entitled to believe her eyes. 

Miss Vernham, remaining oblivious of this per- 
tinacious scrutiny, the stranger had to go close to 
her, and to touch her on the arm, before she suc- 
ceeded in attracting her attention. 

‘ Madge ! ’ 

The voice and the touch did it together ; they 
brought the dreamer back to the land of reality 
with a shock which seemed to be positively painful. 
She glanced up at the woman in front of her like 
some frightened animal. 

* Cecilia ! * 

The name came from her as if it had been a cry 
of pain. Her face went flamingred. She trembled 
as if she were afraid. The stranger seemed to be 
almost as strongly moved. She left her hand upon 
Miss Vernham’s shoulder as if she kept it there to 
help her stand ; she searched her face as if she 
would read her very soul. 

‘ To think that I should meet you like this after 


94 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


all these years.’ Miss Vernham was silent — as if 
perforce. ‘ Where can I speak to you ? ’ 

Miss Vernham made an evident attempt to 
regain her self-possession — and also, as it seemed, 
to pass off the encounter with an air of something 
like bravado. 

‘ Can’t you speak to me here ? ’ 

The other’s reply was peremptory. 

4 No. Come with me.’ 

Like an obedient child, Miss Vernham rose from 
her seat. The two women moved together side by 
side towards that shady oasis, which is behind the 
police-station, where rank and fashion seldom pene- 
trates. Here, in comparative privacy, they seated 
themselves on two chairs, which were not ineffec- 
tively screened by being placed close to the trunk 
of a * spreading ’ oak. Not a word had been spoken 
during their passage there ; and now the stranger 
seemed to experience some difficulty in com- 
mencing the conversation. 

‘ What are you doing ? ’ 

By this time Miss Vernham had recovered 
some of her self-possession — as her answer showed. 

‘ At the present moment, I am sitting close to 
you.’ 

The other frowned. 

‘ Don’t be ridiculous. Madge, you must be very 


LADY POLHURSTON 


95 


wicked. Do you know that it is more than ten 
years since I have seen or heard anything of you. 
We have spent no end of money, we have adver- 
tised, we have moved heaven and earth. I am sure 
Hugh has left no stone unturned, but, since we 
could hear nothing of you, of any kind whatever, 
we concluded that you must be dead.’ 

‘ I am dead — to you.’ 

‘ Don’t talk such nonsense ! However can you 
be dead to me ? — you ! my sister ! ’ 

‘ Sister of long ago ! ’ 

The stranger brushed the words aside. 

‘Tell me at once, what have you been doing with 
yourself all these years ? ’ 

‘Sinking lower and lower.’ As her companion 
regarded her with an apparent lack of compre- 
hension, Miss Vernham added an explanatory 
item. ‘ I am acting now, or, rather, I shall be in a 
day or two. So perhaps it is just as well that we 
have had this little impromtu meeting. It might 
have been an even greater shock to you if you had 
first realised the fact of my continued existence 
by seeing me upon the stage.’ 

‘ Acting ! — You ! — A Tregarthen ! * 

‘ I am not a Tregarthen now ; nor have I been 
these many year. Do not think that I would 


96 ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

sully what is, after all, a good old name, by allowing 
it to be associated with such a womaii as I am.’ 

‘ Madge ! What do you mean ? What has 
been the cause of your most extraordinary behaviour 
not one of us has ever had the faintest notion.’ 

‘ Do you really wish me to tell you ? ’ 

‘ Of course I do.’ 

‘Well — I will. Though, when I have done so, 
I rather think that you will wish that you had 
remained in ignorance.’ She paused. Something 
went out of her face, something which left it gray 
‘ I left — because I had killed my mother.’ 

‘Your mother? do you mean our mother? 
Madge ! Are you stark mad ? ’ 

‘ I wish I were. I have often wished it. But 
God has denied me even that relief.’ 

‘ But — you must be mad — to say such a thing as 
that! Mother suffered from a weak heart for 
years, everybody knew it. It was proved beyond 
a doubt that she had died from heart disease, just 
as it had been feared that she would die. Why, 
it was you who found her in the wood, you and 
Mr Ellerslie. 

‘Yes, it was I who found her in the wood, I and 
Mr Ellerslie.’ 

‘We thought that grief for her loss had driven 
you out of your senses, and that you had drowned 


LADY POLHURSTON 


97 


yourself in one of the lakes. We had them all 
drained — but there was nothing there.’ 

‘ No ; there was nothing there.’ 

‘Madge! What do you mean? You frighten 
me.’ 

Miss Vernham, leaning forward, whispered into 
the other’s ear. As she heard, an indescribable 
look of intense horror came on to her face. 

‘ Madge ! ’ 

‘ Her death cry was the first intimation we had of 
her presence — how often I have heard it since. 
We turned, and we saw that there was mother 
looking at us through the branches of the nut- 
trees. We saw that something was the matter 
with her, for she was swaying to and fro, and 
suddenly she fell. In that moment I also died.’ 

The stranger wiped her lips with the scrap of 
lace which did duty as a handkerchief. She was 
looking slightly draggled. She spoke a little 
hoarsely. 

‘None of us dreamt that Gilbert Ellerslie was 
your lover — you were quite a child.’ 

‘Two months afterwards I was seventeen, and 
he was not my lover. We went for a stroll to- 
gether in the woods, as we had done over and over 
again before, without even thinking of love. He 
was telling me of his wife in the asylum, what a 

G 


9 8 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


grief her insanity had been. I was very sorry for 
him, and I tried to comfort him, and — all at once 
it happened — mother was dead.’ 

‘ And what became of Gilbert Ellerslie ? ’ 

1 1 have never seen him from that hour, except 
in the silent watches of the night, when God has 
allowed me to be tormented before my time. 
Why do you ask ? ’ 

4 It is all so - mysterious. Some four or five 
months after you had gone, he went too. He 
vanished as completely as you had done. His 
property was placed in the hands of agents, and 
was sold. Nobody seems to know what has 
become of him, though, some three or four years 
ago I heard that his wife was dead. I believe that 
she was still in the asylum when she died.’ 

There was silence. The speaker was looking 
down at the scanty grasses which she was kicking 
with the toe of her shoe. Presently she said some- 
thing which, perhaps, only a woman would have 
said. 

‘ You always were good-looking, but the queerest 
thing to me is, that, in spite of the life which you 
must have lived, you are better looking than ever 
you were. Do you know that you are positively 
beautiful ? ’ 

‘Cissy’ — as she touched her sister’s arm with 


LADY POLHURSTON 


99 


eager, outstretched hand, Miss Vernham reverted 
unconsciously to the pet name of her girlhood’s 
days — ‘ do you know that I believe that it is a 
curse which God has laid upon me ? My beauty 
is to me as a brand of Cain — indelible. The ex- 
periences which, in the case of nine hundred and 
ninety-nine women out of a thousand, would have 
totally destroyed all trace of beauty, have but 
nourished mine. It increases year by year. It 
frightens me. I hate it — oh, how I hate it! I 
would make myself as hideous as any hideous 
creature of them all with my own hands, if I were 
not afraid of God, for the longer I live, the more I 
fear that He has set it upon me as a perpetual 
curse, to drag me lower and lower, so that, through 
constantly recurring degradations, even in this life, 
I shall work out a continual atonement for my sin.’ 

‘What extraordinary language you do use. I 
expect that you brood and brood until you become 
saturated with morbidity. Beauty is given to a 
woman as a blessing, especially beauty such as 
yours. I tell you quite candidly that I don’t think 
I ever did see anyone lovelier. It’s not a curse.’ 

‘ Isn’t it? That’s all you know. Lucky Cecilia ! 
You see you speak as Lady Polhurston, I, as quite 
a different kind of person. By the way, there’s 
something else I ought to tell you. I am married.' 


100 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


The change in her manner, from intense emotion 
to careless levity, was so sudden that it took Lady 
Polhurston aback. 

‘ You are married ? To whom ? * 

‘ To a man named Mabbett — Lucian Mabbett.’ 

‘Mabbett?’ The lady shuddered. ‘What a 
name.’ 

‘Isn’t it? And the man himself is worse than 
his name — miles.’ 

‘ What is Mr Mabbett ? 9 

* A drunkard, chiefly.’ 

* A drunkard ? — Madge !— are you joking ? ’ 

‘Not at all. He called himself an actor. And 

he might have been an actor, once. Now, I expect, 
it’s too late — even if he’s still alive.’ 

4 If he’s still alive. Don’t you know if he is 
still alive ? What is it you are saying ? ’ 

‘It’s this way. I’d tried everything, and failed 
at everything, and so, something more than two 
years ago, 1 thought I’d try to be an actress, for a 
change. I got an engagement with a company 
on tour. Lucian Mabbett was a member of the 
company. He was the leading man. I was 
nobody at all ; he received six or seven pounds 
a week ; I about as many shillings. Still — he 
was attracted by my face, as men invariably are, 
and — I thought the man could act, and that he 


LADY POLHURSTON 


IOI 


might teach me — so I married him. And it was 
only after I had married him that I discovered 
what manner of man he was. I admit that I had 
had an inkling of his character ; actors, especially 
provincial actors, like to fancy themselves “con- 
vivial souls ; ” but the full revelation only came 
with marriage. Within a fortnight, he started 
on what he called “ the drink ; ” he kept at it 
till he was ignominiously turned out of the com- 
pany. The last I heard of him he was in a New- 
castle infirmary, suffering from delirium tremens. 
That was more than eighteen months ago. By 
now he may be dead. But I hardly think he is. 
Those sort of people never die. So you see I am, 
at any rate, a widow for the moment/ 

‘ It makes me ill to hear you talk. My poor 
child ! What you must have suffered.’ 

The actress turned, so that she looked the 
great lady fairly and squarely in the face. 

‘ I have been telling you all this, because I wish 
you to understand the situation. If I had thought 
that I should have seen you in Hyde Park, I 
should have kept outside, but — I wanted some 
fresh air, and — I have got more than I wanted. 
You are to regard this encounter merely as an 
incident. If you take my advice, you will speak 
of it to no one. No good purpose can be served 


102 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


by doing so. You will continue to consider me 
as dead — as, indeed, I have been, these ten years 
now, and more.’ 

‘Do you mean to say that I am never to see 
you again?’ 

‘ That is, emphatically, what I do mean to say. 
Your life and my life are in two different planetary 
systems ; I speak of what I know. Under no 
circumstances can we have anything in common 
one with the other.’ 

‘But you are my sister — I have always loved 
you as a sister — we never used to quarrel as other 
sisters do, I won’t hear of losing sight of you 
again. Think of all I can do to help you.’ 

‘You can do nothing — believe me, you can do 
nothing. am among the ghosts ; only God can 
hide me away from them, and that He will never 
do. It is written that I am to go down into hell.’ 

‘ It isn’t true.’ 

‘ It is true. Besides, think of another thing. 
How would Sir Hugh Polhurston favour the idea 
of having to regard such a woman as Mrs Lucian 
Mabbett as the sister of his wife, and Mr Lucian 
Mabbett, dipsomaniac and blackguard, as her 
husband.’ 

The great lady shivered. She looked perplexed, 
divided between conflicting emotions. 


LADY POLHURSTON 


103 


‘ Hugh used to be so fond of you/ 

‘ He used to be, when I was living. How would 
he regard me now ? * 

‘ He is so particular. As, of course, you know, 
he is still the member for the county, and he was 
in the last Government, and he expects to hold 
higher office in the next, and — he is so strict in his 
ideas/ 

‘ And he is quite right in being so. A man 
cannot be too particular about the sort of women 
with whom he allovvs his feminine connections to 
associate themselves/ 

‘ Madge ! ’ 

‘ It is a truism. As I said before, I speak of 
what I know. If I were in your place, and you in 
mine, I should, certainly, have nothing to do with 
you, I should have too much sense, and too much 
regard for my good name/ 

She made a movement as if to rise. The other 
stayed her. 

* At least you must tell me where it is that you 
are living/ 

‘ I shall do nothing of the kind. I don’t wish to 
subject you to any risks. I know your impulsive 
heart, Cecilia. You can give me your address, 
and, if I am in any need, I will let you know/ 

‘ You promise me/ 


104 ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

‘I do.’ She rose. ‘You are a woman of the 
world ; and I — am a woman of another world. 
That we are sisters is an accident, it does not follow 
that, merely on that account, we should be on 
speaking terms ; nowadays that sort of thing is not 
a necessity in the least. We have grown wiser. 
You show your wisdom by continuing to consider 
me as dead ; as I am — to you.’ 

Miss Vernham moved rapidly across the grass ; 
leaving the great lady, half breathless, seated on 
the chair. Before the latter had recovered herself 
sufficiently to gain her feet, the other was a good 
twenty yards away. 

‘ Madge ! ’ she cried. 

If the actress heard, she paid no heed. It was 
astonishing how fast she walked. It was not to be 
expected that Lady Polhurston should attempt to 
chase her across Hyde Park. 


CHAPTER X 


MR BAINES CAREW 

It was with curious feelings that Ada Vernham 
returned to her Soho lodging — as if she had passed 
from one dream world to another. She felt as 
if she had been permitted to lift a corner of the 
curtain, and to peep into the paradise in which 
she herself had been once a freeholder, and, 
although the corner had been dropped again, 
some of the brightness still seemed shining 
through. She knew that it was there. 

A packet was ready for her on the table. It 
contained the scrip of Elsa’s part ; and a note 
from the anxious dramatist ; in which he urged 
her to at once commence its study, and in a 
postscript — earnestly entreated her to use her 
best endeavours for him with his friend. The 
concluding words were doubly underlined, ‘ If I 


io6 ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

dorCt have the promise of the money by to-morrow 
it will mean ruin for us all! 

She turned the typewritten sheets over with 
her fingers. After a glimpse into that other 
world, how poor a thing it seemed to be an 
actress ! And such an actress as she herself was 
— the meanest member of so mean a trade! 
With all these burdens on her shoulders, these 
Sisyphean tasks. What an interminable part it 
was, this one of Elsa. As her eyes rested, here 
and there, upon the pages, she was struck, not 
for the first time, by the fact that the blank 
verse was not of the finest quality. 

Removing her hat, sponging her face and eyes, 
and giving to her hair, and to her apparel, those 
trifling touches over which women’s fingers love 
to linger, she sat down, and, then and there, 
began to study. She first of all read the part 
conscientiously through from beginning to end. 
As she did so, she more than once came on 
passages which she was conscious might well be 
mended, and that without much pains. But, 
after the awful fate of Agnes Graham, she might 
not venture on editorial suggestions. And, indeed, 
she had never had a part entrusted to her yet 
the mere writing of which had approached the 
excellent; and was well aware that, so far as it 


MR BAINES CAREW 


107 


concerns success in plays, as in novels, literary 
quality was not of great importance. Still, 
although, of course, literature and the drama 
are different things, it seemed a pity to call this 
thing a poetic play if it was lacking poetry. 

‘ It was probably between nine and ten o’clock, 
and she had been studying some considerable time, 
when a card was brought into the room on which 
was inscribed, ‘ Mr Baines Carew.’ 

‘Show Mr Carew upstairs.’ While she waited 
she glanced at the card. ‘ Baines Carew ! Some- 
how I thought that that was just the sort of name 
Mr Basing’s friend would have, it’s theatrical/ 

The name might have been theatrical ; its owner 
did not look as if he were. He was a tall, portly 
individual, with reddish brown hair, which he wore 
parted in the centre, and which was going grey 
at the edges and thin at the top. He had side 
whiskers, and a moustache which was as a bridge 
between them. His cheeks were ruddy ; pince-nez 
were perched his nose, which was a trifle hooked ; 
he was in evening dress ; and there was some- 
thing about him altogether which suggested, that, 
although he regarded himself very properly, as a 
person of considerable importance, still he was 
quite prepared, under certain circumstances, to 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


inR 

condescend, and that moreover, he was conscious 
that those circumstances might be present now. 

Miss Vernham might have found it difficult to 
describe precisely what kind of person she had 
expected to see, but plainly it was not this kind. 
She was seated at the opposite side of the table, 
facing the door, and when the visitor entered had 
half-risen to give him greeting. So soon, however, 
as she perceived him clearly she remained motion- 
less, thoughts chasing each other across her face as 
clouds across the sky. Then, without a word, she 
dropped back on to her chair and stared. 

The visitor, on his part, seemed to the full as 
surprised as the lady — though his surprise came a 
little later. He was well inside the room, and 
was already beginning to bow, when amazement 
overtook him — with relentless severity. His mouth 
dropped open, his glasses dropped off his nose, the 
whole man went limp. 

It was the lady who first recovered her presence 
of mind ; a spirit of malevolence seemed to have 
accompanied its return. She looked at the visitor, 
then at the card, then back again at the visitor, 
and she said in a voice of silvery sweetness. 

‘ Mr Baines Carew.’ 

The visitor seemed to have to make a spasmodic 


MR BAINES CAREW 


109 


effort to enable him to regain his voice. His lips 
were trembling. 

‘ Madge ! ’ He fumbled with his glasses, ex- 
periencing no slight difficulty in replacing them 
upon his nose. ‘ Good — good God ! ’ 

* I beg your pardon, Mr Baines Carew ? 5 

* Madge ! 5 reiterated the gaping man. ‘ What — 
what the devil’s the meaning of this ? ’ 

‘ That’s what I want to know — what it means. 
I believe it is Sir Hugh Polhurston.’ 

‘ Of course it is ! — you know it is I And you 
are Madge TregarthenP 

In his agitation, the speaker was making a 
bungle of his attempts to reach his handkerchief. 

‘ To think of your recognising me after all these 
years ! But I should have known you anywhere. 
And how is Cecilia ? and the children ? I hope 
they are very well — and you ? One hardly 
expected to see you in town at this season of the 
year. Is it your parliamentary duties which are 
keeping you ? Or don’t you go in for grouse as 
much as you did ? ’ 

‘ Is this a trap — of Mr Philip Basing’s setting?* 

* A trap ? I don’t understand you. Haven’t 
you brought me a message from Cecilia? And 
how came they to bring me in a card on which 
was such a name as “ Baines Carew ? ” ' 


no ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

4 Are you Ada Vernham ? * 

‘ I am — as much as you are Baines Carew.’ 

‘ Did you know that I was coming?’ 

* I did not know who was coming. I never 
dreamt it could be you. I have always understood 
that you were so particular, so strict in your ideas. 
I did not know that it was your habit to visit 
unknown actresses at this hour of the night Does 
Cecilia ? ’ 

Sir Hugh Polhurston had, apparently, been 
making violent efforts to regain his self-possession, 
and had partially succeeded. 

‘ Eh — we all thought that you were dead — all of 
us ! Cecilia actually put on mourning — yes ! ’ 

‘You were quite right. I am dead.’ 

‘ You are dead, what do you mean ? ’ 

‘ Madge Tregarthen is dead. It is Ada Vern- 
ham who is alive.’ 

‘I don’t understand you in the least, but I’m 
bound to say that your conduct strikes me as 
being most extraordinary, and — and reprehensible.’ 

‘ My dear Sir Hugh, I don’t acknowledge your 
right to criticise me at all ; especially under the 
peculiar circumstances of the case?’ 

‘What do you mean by under the peculiar 
circumstances of the case?’ 

‘Wouldn’t the circumst?nces appear peculiar to 


MR BAINES CAREW 


III 


Cecilia, and to your constituents ? A prominent 
politician, especially when he is known to be 
particular and strict in his ideas, nowadays has to 
be so circumspect.’ 

‘ Eh, my presence here is susceptible of the 
fullest explanation.’ 

‘ Precisely. When elderly gentlemen of position 
visit unknown actresses at this hour, their presence 
generally is susceptible of the fullest explanation. 
That is what I mean.’ 

‘You misjudge me, foully. Madge — ’ 

‘ My name is Vernham, Ada Vernham. Kindly 
call me by my name.’ 

‘ I don’t understand you in the least.’ 

‘ On the contrary, you understand me very well 
indeed. Mr Philip Basing informed me, Mr Baines 
Carew, that you would call on me this evening, 
and that, if you were satisfied with my personal 
appearance, and so on, you would advance him the 
sum which is necessary to enable him to produce 
his play “ A Legend of the Rhine.” As you are 
more than satisfied, you will of course, do as he 
requires.’ 

‘Eh — you have no right to speak to me like 
that.’ 

‘ No right ! — My good sir ! — what do you mean ? 
— aren’t you satisfied ? ’ 


1 12 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


‘ I will transact my business with Mr Basing 
myself. In the meantime, it is about you I wish 
to speak/ 

‘Listen to me. You came here expecting to 
find a woman who would be honoured by your 
attentions and flatteries. Well, you have not found 
her. Your experiences in such matters, which I 
suspect to be a wide one, must have made you 
acquainted with the fact that all women are not 
fools/ 

‘ The inferences which you draw are unwarranted 
— absolutely ! I — I never heard anything so 
absurd ! ’ 

She leaned back in her chair, wearily. 

‘ Let us hear what are the inferences I ought to 
draw, Mr Baines Carew/ 

Sir Hugh Polhurston was moving uneasily about 
the room, endeavouring, somewhat unsuccessfully, 
to maintain a pompous mien. 

‘ My dear — my dear — ’ 

‘Miss Vernham. You surely do not wish to 
recognise me as your sister-in-law. I am sorry 
for you if you do/ 

‘ Is it possible that you can be in earnest. 

‘ Is it possible that you can be such a hypocrite ? 
Are we playing a game of cross questions and 
of crooked answers ? Do you take me for a child ? 


MR BAINES CAREW 


113 


Surely your knowledge of the class of women to 
which I belong is too great to permit you to fall 
into such an error.’ 

‘Your mind seems to be full of thoughts which 
are almost too horrible for contemplation. The 
sole raison d'etre of my presence here is to render 
assistance to a young and struggling dramatist — 
being, as I am proud to say, a — a patron of the 
drama.’ 

‘That’s very nice of you. It is all that is 
required, assistance for a struggling dramatist. 
For my part, I am simply here to plead his cause, 
I assure you it is a most deserving case, I have 
no reason to believe that you ever will regret your 
generosity. And, since you are so very kind, 
perhaps you will not mind committing your 
guarantee of assistance to writing, Mr Baines 
Carew.’ 

‘You — you move too fast. You forget that 
before I came here I had not the faintest 
notion that you were to act in the fellow’s 
play.’ 

‘ Well, what difference does that make? ’ 

‘ Difference ! When you are my wife’s sister ! ’ 

‘It entirely rests with you to make it known 
that I am your wife’s sister. I shan’t I am not 
sufficiently in love with the connection. Would 

H 


1 14 ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

you rather that your wife’s sister should walk the 
streets ! ’ 

‘ Woman ! ’ 

‘ Man ! ’ 

They faced each other. With a show of in- 
dignation, swelling and puffing him out like a 
pouter pigeon, he endeavoured, by the mere force 
of vision, to bring her to a consciousness of her 
bad behaviour. Yet his glance was the first which 
quailed. With a mocking smile she pushed 
towards him a sheet of paper and a pen. 

‘ Don’t you really think that you had better 
commit that guarantee to writing, Mr Baines 
Carew ? ’ 

He heaved a portentous sigh. 

‘To think that such a woman should be a 
connection of my wife’s ! * 

‘To think that such a man should be the 
husband of my sister ! Poor Cecilia ! Imagine 
what her feelings would be if she were to know 
that her husband was Mr Baines Carew, and a 
patron of the drama.’ 

‘ Dreadful ! dreadful ! ’ 

‘ Frightful, isn’t it ? Poor, dear, simple-minded, 
confiding, Cecilia ! But I fear it is too late to be 
of real assistance to her, don’t you? Mr Baines 
Carew? There!’ There was a knocking at the 


MR BAINES CAREW 


US 


hall door. ‘Now I daresay some one has come to 
see me, you will have an opportunity of volunteer- 
ing that fullest explanation of which your presence 
here is so susceptible.’ 

The prospect of being afforded such an oppor- 
tunity did not appear to please Sir Hugh at all. 

‘ I must beg of you not to admit any one else 
while I am here. I am just about to go, and, I 
have no desire to make promiscuous acquaint- 
ances.’ 

* Careful, self-respecting soul! You do meet 
such dreadful characters in these sort of places, 
especially such curious women — don’t you ? ’ 

* I — I don’t wish to say any further to hurt your 
feelings, but I must express to you — ’ 

* Yes ! Some one is coming up the stairs. I’m 
afraid we shall be interrupted.’ 

‘You — you really must admit no one else till I 
am gone. I — I insist on it ! 

‘ My good sir ! Cover your face with your 
pocket handkerchief, or hide beneath the table ; 
or do something else calculated to demonstrate 
your purity of purpose. I can’t deny myself to 
my friends because of you. Come in ! ’ 

Philip Basing entered. Each gentleman seemed 
surprised to see the other, and not delighted. Mr 


ii 6 ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

Basing was apologetic — a little awkwardly. He 
addressed Sir Hugh. 

‘ I beg your pardon. I hope I’m not intruding, 
you know Paul Pry ? — but I thought you would 
have gone.’ 

Miss Vernham interposed. 

‘Your friend was just going, weren’t you, Mr 
Baines Carew ? Mr Basing, you cannot think how 
nice your friend has been to me. I have enjoyed 
his call so much, we have so many things in 
common. And he has shown himself to be such 
a true patron of the drama, the soul of generosity. 
He has promised to do all for you that you 
require.’ Mr Basing’s countenance visibly 
brightened ; Sir Hugh’s did not. ‘ Haven’t you, 
Mr Baines Carew?’ Although the lady paused 
for an answer, none seemed to be immediately 
forthcoming. ‘ What was the exact sum you said 
would be required, Mr Basing ? ’ 

‘Well, I don’t know that I went very closely 
into figures, but, I should say, certainly not more 
than a thousand pounds.’ 

Judging from his manner one might have been for- 
given for suspecting that Mr Basing was feeling 
his way ; going as far as he dared. At the 
mention of the actual amount his friend distinctly 
started. 


MR BAINES CAREW 


117 

‘ Are you sure that a thousand pounds will be 
enough? Don’t spoil the ship for want of a 
ha’worth of tar ; this gentleman will not shy at 
a hundred pounds. Will fifteen hundred be 
sufficient ? ’ 

‘ Ample/ 

Mr Basing was, possibly, beginning to perceive 
that there was something in the situation which 
was not upon the surface. 

‘ Of course you will let Mr Basing have the 
fifteen hundred pounds. I may promise it in your 
name, may I not ? ’ 

‘ You may do nothing of the kind.’ 

‘ I may do nothing of the kind ? Pray what am 
I to understand by that, Mr Baines Carew ? Be so 
good as to explain yourself precisely.’ 

The striking change which had, all at once, 
taken place in the lady’s voice, and in her manner, 
did not seem to add to her visitor’s sense of 
comfort. He shuffled with his feet and with his 
hands, stuttering almost as if he had an impedi- 
ment in his speech. 

‘ I — I — I am willing to — to assist Mr Basing, so 
— so far as my means will permit me, but — but 
the sum you name is monstrous, quite — quite out 
of my power/ 


n8 ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

Mr Basing advanced to him with outstretched 
hand. 

‘ My dear fellow, I perfectly understand. Don’t 
be afraid, I’ll not bleed you. And you may rely 
on every penny you advance being returned to 
you — with thumping interest Miss Vernham, I 
have to thank you from the bottom of my heart, 
for your intercession on my behalf.’ 

‘ Pray don’t mention it — it has been a pleasure ! 
It has served as a means of making me known to 
Mr Baines Carew. You cannot think what a 
profound belief he has in “ A Legend of the 
Rhine,” and — don’t laugh at me — in the actress 
who is to essay the principal part in it. Good-bye, 
Mr Carew. Must you go? So sorry. You’ll 
come and see me again, won’t you? Now promise 
me you will. Mr Basing, I won’t keep you. I 
know how many things you must have which you 
wish to say to your friend, and which must be said. 
You see, I know what friends are like; so I shall 
turn both of you out together.’ 


CHAPTER XI 


THE RESOLUTION OF A DOUBT 

It was Thursday: ‘A Legend of the Rhine’ was 
to be produced upon the Saturday immediately 
following. Night : Ada Vernham was in her 
bedroom, woefully tired. A long rehearsal seemed 
to have left her fibreless. She had returned 
from the theatre too wearied to eat, worn out, 
bodily and mentally. She told herself, a little 
grimly, that, if the strain was not soon relaxed, 
Mr Basing would have to find yet another player 
to enact his heroine. The process of rehearsing 
a play, under the best conditions, is not a gladsome 
one ; when those conditions are about as bad as 
they could be — that way madness lies ; as Ada 
Vernham was feeling now. 

Philip Basing’s forte was not stage management. 
The strong stage manager forms, in his mind’s 
eye, a picture of a stage, to the details of which 


120 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


he strenuously adheres. The plan of the stage, 
according to Mr Basing, was capable of infinite 
mutations, the result being jangle, wrangle, tangle 
— which is chaos. Everybody was on bad terms 
with everybody else, and so at variance with the 
author that there was an almost general consensus 
of desire that his play were damned, though they 
themselves went with it. In the storm and stress, 
Miss Vernham seemed to be so placed that it was 
her hard fortune to be buffetted by every wind. 
And now she was so tired of the toiling and the 
troubling, that, with all the force which still was 
hers, she wished there were an end. 

She came into her bedroom, and, without 
removing hat or coat or gloves, sat upon a 
chair, and, with hands lying limply on her knees, 
stared, with unseeing eyes, at the unseen. How 
long, she asked herself, would this endure, this 
straining after Dead Sea apples ? The fruit 
which was pleasant in the eating would never 
again be hers ; by her own action she had 
ordered it so that, for ever and ever, her portion 
would but consist of the husks of her dead 
desires. She had shut herself outside the 
orchard in which the trees were growing whose 
fruit was happiness. Her dwelling place was in 
the Cities of the Plain. Was the joy of living 


THE RESOLUTION OF A DOUBT 


121 


worth this to her, this life-long pain? The ‘joy’ 
of living ! What fairy tale was that ? 

With tired hands she began to remove her 
clothes. If she could only rest, that would be 
something — if she could only forget herself in 
sleep. The words of her part kept running through 
her head ; — if she could only rid herself, for a few 
glad hours, of the play and its story. As she rose 
from her seat to remove her jacket, she gave vent 
to a fit of childish passion. 

‘ I hate it ! Oh, how I hate it ! ' The scrip of 
her part was in her jacket pocket. In her foolish 
anger she snatched it out and threw it from her 
on to the floor. * Oh, how I wish that the theatre 
and all its associations were buried deep down 
beneath the sea ! ’ 

A moment’s reflection showed her that, if her 
wish were gratified, her latter state might be worse 
than her former. She picked the manuscript up. 
Smoothing its crumpled leaves, she laid it care- 
fully upon the mantelshelf. The part might do 
something for her, after all. Who knows? Be- 
cause her anticipations were so few, her gratification 
might be greater. 

She removed the bodice of her dress. Loosing 
her hair as she stood brushing it before the looking- 
glass, she recited to herself some of the lines of 


122 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


her part which occurred in the great scene of the 
play. Her eyes strayed mirrorwards. In spite 
of the scanty dimensions of the sheet of silvered 
glass, they were not slight enough to conceal from 
her the fact of how perfectly she looked the mimic 
heroine. She had, of course, been conscious of 
the fact before, but for some reason, it appealed 
to her just then almost with the force of novelty. 
The fine contour of her snow - white arms, the 
promise of her swelling bust, her queenly neck ; 
the crinkling glories of her nut-brown hair, these 
things came home to her with such a sudden sense 
of their reality that, as if surprised by her own 
beauty, she was ashamed. 

She finished her hair and her recitation both 
together, and so disrobed. Impelled by the same 
odd feeling, which was half curiosity, half some- 
thing else, she continued to stand before the 
mirror, and to regard herself, as she appeared 
in it, and that with a scrutiny which was 
redeemed from its inherent conceit by the ex- 
treme thoughtfulness of her intense, pre-occu- 
pied, fixed stare. Thus she stood, considering 
attentively as much of herself as was visible in 
the glass. 

As she looked, she smiled as if not ill pleased 
by what she saw ; as if amused to think that 


THE RESOLUTION OF A DOUBT 


123 


she, the pariah, the accursed, should have, in so 
marvellous a degree, that which all women craved. 
Are there no female saints, she wondered, who 
would exchange their saintship for her beauty? 
No shapeless paragons who would give tithes of 
their abstract virtues for the material equivalents 
of her radiant limbs? None of the flat-chested 
though elect who would give a lien on their 
election for the subtle beauties of her glorious 
bust? It is well to be a saint, but sanctity is, 
sometimes, but a post obit after all, of which one 
has to be very sure of the security. As she stood 
there, throwing herself into little poses, admiring 
the effect with a frankness which, if it was 
hedonistic, at any rate was natural, almost, for 
the moment she was happy. 

For the moment only ; and almost, not quite, 
suddenly the expression of her face was changed. 
She reeled, clutching at the flimsy dressing-table 
to save herself from falling. Retaining her clutch, 
as, bent nearly double, she stared into the mirror 
with frightened eyes. For some seconds she 
was motionless— spectre meeting spectre in the 
glass ; terror meeting terror. Then again there 
passed over her that strange shivering, that 
mysterious tremblement of the flesh, which is, 
to some women, like the upheaval of all nature’s 


124 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


forces. Losing her hold of the table, drawing 
herself as upright as she could, staggering, like 
some drunken creature, across the room, she 
threw herself, face foremost, on the bed. 


CHAPTER XII 


THE HORROR OF THE RESOLUTION 

All night she was in agony, — a prey, it seemed 
to her, of all the fiends in hell. She was blessed, 
or cursed, it may be written either way, as cir- 
cumstances alter cases, with a vivid imagination. 
As it were, on a pin’s point she could rear a 
mighty edifice. And, straightway, she reared 
one then. 

As if it had been written in letters of fire, 
she saw, in front of her, the history of the child 
as Pilate’s wife saw the things which troubled 
her, on that immortal night, in her im- 
mortal dream. With a graphic eye for detail, 
which should have made her fortune as fictionist, 
she unconsciously figured as an omniscience, and 
wrote its history — nothing extenuating, laying 
all the sorest places bare. She foresaw that 
it would be brought into the world upon a bed 
of shame — that she would be ashamed of it, and 


126 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


it would be ashamed of her. As the years went 
on, the atmosphere of shame would remain un- 
changed, so that, where the common conversa- 
tion of the world looks for the outward marks 
of the sanctity of the maternal relationship, there 
would, instead, be the badge of an unending de- 
gradation. Hers would be the pangs of mater- 
nity, and the pangs only ; she would not know 
the joy which should come to a woman with 
the knowledge that she has borne a child unto 
the world. And the child, conceived in iniquity, 
born unto shame, would tread a dishonoured 
path into a nameless grave. 

All this she foresaw quite clearly, and the 
foresight maddened her. Her case was made 
worse by the fact that she was one of those 
women, rarer than most suppose, in whom the 
maternal instinct is strong; and the instant she 
knew herself to be with child, that instant the 
unborn baby began to twine itself about her 
heart, and she hungered for its kisses. Her child, 
her own child ; what a crown of glory it ought 
to be ! Of her own deed, she had made of it 
a thing of shame. 

Where did her duty lie? Her duty, that is, to 
the child. So soon as the first horror of the 
shock had passed, that was the question which 


THE HORROR OF THE RESOLUTION 127 

began to formulate itself in her brain, and which 
she continually asked of herself all through the 
night. Would it be better that it should remain 
unborn — better for the child ? She strained every 
nerve to breaking point in her frantic efforts to 
gain sufficient grip upon her thoughts to enable 
her to think ; pacing to and fro, verily a restless 
spirit, groping for the answer which continually 
eluded her. 

She remembered that when, aforetime, she had 
heard of women in a similar plight to hers, she 
had no doubt whatever — better for such a child 
that it should never be born. These were cases, 
she opined, in which law was one thing, equity 
another. She had doubted if women of her sort 
were entitled to live at all ; she had always been, 
even possibly still was, in spirit, of that great 
host of women who would stone the Magdalenes. 
That it were better they should be destroyed 
rather than that they should be allowed to become 
the bearers of children she had been resolutely 
persuaded. Now that the leading case was her 
own, was she prepared to put her principles 
into practice? Was the issue such a simple 
one now she had ceased to view it from outside? 

The battle was fought over and over again, and 
never to an issue. The tragedy of the unwilling 


128 ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

mother has never yet been adequately told. 
Morning found her sleepless, dry-eyed, with all 
her nerves, like pin points, set on edge, and 
pricking her. Once, she had stolen between the 
sheets, and tried to woo oblivion. In vain. 
She closed her teeth upon her lips and strove 
to force herself to lie quiescent. The thing was 
beyond her strength. The agony was insupport- 
able. A Chinese master of the torture could not 
have invented a more exquisite suffering. Her 
only hope of relief lay in perpetual movement. So, 
getting out of bed again, she recommenced her 
ceaseless pacings to and fro. 

It was as the small hours were growing into 
larger ones, that she took from a small silken 
bag, from which she had never parted company 
in all the vicissitudes of her fortunes, two photo- 
graphs. There had, formerly, been a third ; and 
the third had been the portrait of a woman, of her 
mother. But there had come a time when she 
had no longer dared to bear her mother’s portrait 
about with her ; it frightened her. The grave 
eyes, which she had so dearly loved, and which 
had so dearly loved her too, regarded her with 
a terrible reproach — a reproach which continually 
became more terrible. She became afraid to 
meet it; afraid to think that, though unseen, it 


THE HORROR OF THE RESOLUTION 129 

still was there ; afraid to carry it pressed against 
her bosom. And so, at last, she took it with her 
into a churchyard which was across the sea, 
and there, with her own hands, among those who 
were asleep, she buried it. 

The two photographs which she still had were 
both photographs of men. One was the likeness 
of Gilbert Ellerslie, the man who had, as she 
believed, unwittingly acted the part of serpent in 
her Eden ; the other was the portrait of her 
husband. She bore Ellerslie’s portrait about with 
her in something of the spirit in which the penitent 
wears a horsehair shirt ; it acted as a continual 
irritant, an unresting goad ; whenever she looked 
at it she remembered that she was what she was. 
And yet in the man’s face there was something of 
the ascetic : a suggestion of some of the finer 
flowers even among the Christian virtues ; one 
would not have guessed that this was the portrait 
of a libertine. Her husband’s effigy she preserved 
with the natural desire of having within reach 
some means of recognising the individual to whom 
she was joined in bonds which, in theory if not in 
practice, she held to be indissoluble. 

As she looked from one to the other, she laughed 
a queer, resonant, uncanny laugh. The sound of 
her laughter stealing in her ears, she recognised its 

I 


130 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


peculiarity of tone. She wondered if she was 
going mad. Fearful of she knew not what, she 
dressed herself hurriedly, before it was yet com- 
pletely light, and went out into the street. 

The keen air of the early morning did her 
good. She moved quickly over the empty 
pavements. She had gone some distance, she 
could not herself have said how far, for she 
walked without plan or purpose, turning corners 
without noticing or caring whither they were 
leading her ; when, in her haste, she almost ran 
against a woman who was about to mount some 
steps, and who, having mounted them, disappeared 
through a door at the top. Ada Vernham turned, 
indifferently enough, to look where the woman 
had gone. She perceived that she was passing a 
church ; that the woman had entered it. She 
stopped. A sudden impulse came over her. 
She, too, mounted the steps ; and she went after 
the woman. 


CHAPTER XIII 


A PENITENT 

The church was half in shadow. At the high 
altar some sort of a service seemed to be going 
on. Her knowledge of Catholic forms and cere- 
monies was Protestantly vague ; she had no 
notion what the proceedings meant. Figures 
moved mysteriously before the candle-lighted 
altar, voices floated down the chancel, sonorous 
voices, intoning priests’ Latinity. The church 
was a large one. From where she stood, inside 
the door, the voices were heard but dimly ; one 
might almost have mistaken them for the whisper- 
ings of the dead. The odours of the acolyte 
wafted incense appealed to her nostrils with a 
peculiar pungency ; it afflicted her with a sort of 
vague nostalgia — a longing for she knew not what. 
She leaned against the door, and closed her eyes 
and shuddered. 


132 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


Presently, moving farther into the building, 
she sat down on the outside chair in the final 
row. It rested her, this place ; she felt that it 
was good to be there. She perceived that there 
were more worshippers than she had at first 
supposed. The building was so large, and the 
light so dim, that it was a minute or two before 
she realised their presence; some of them, too, 
seemed to have hidden themselves away in 
nooks and crannies, as if desirous of concealing 
themselves from all but God. 

As she sat, the influence of the place grew 
stronger and stronger — almost as if she had 
entered, unawares, into a palace of enchant- 
ments. The spells, weaving themselves about 
her, were beginning to draw her into a sea 
of sensuous emotion ; to fill her with a form- 
less, yet passionate desire to knit the spirit of 
the place into her very being. The droning of 
the priests seemed to her like the voices of 
magicians ; they called to her very really, out 
of the deep ; for she knew not what they said, 
nor what they did, and in the mystery lay the 
fascination. The odour of the incense had over 
her, as it has over so many women, who are 
strongest on their emotional side, an unmistak- 
able effect ; it soothed one side of her nature 


A PENITENT 


133 


while it roused another. As she remained 
motionless, looking in front of her with staring 
eyes, she was, for no logical reason whatever, 
rapidly approaching to that half ecstatic, half 
delirious condition, in which so many churches 
of all creeds look for the most striking illustra- 
tions of the divine influence. 

A trivial incident gave to this condition of 
affairs an irresistible impetus. She became 
conscious, all at once, that close to her was a 
confessional. It was a little to the front of her, 
on the left. She recognised also that in it, at 
that moment, was a penitent, a woman ; the 
hem of her skirt was trailing on the tasselated 
pavement. 

A penitent ! Relieving her bosom of the 
unbearable burden of its woe ! What a person to 
be envied. The Roman Church, if not of God, is, 
at least, of the wisdom of the wisest men ; if not 
the friend of heaven it is, at anyrate, the friend 
of that not inconsiderable portion of humanity 
who, in their times of trouble, must, like limpets, 
cling to something for support. To these it may 
exclaim, with some degree of truth, ‘Come unto 
Me, and I will give you rest ! ’ This is an 
invertebrate generation — strong enough to do, 
but, for the most part, not strong enough to 


134 ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

bear the result of its own doing. The natural 
results of natural causes, the people who are 
principally concerned frequently find themselves 
too weak to bear. They are actuated by an 
understandable, if undignified, desire to shift the 
burden, at least partially, on to other shoulders. 
To meet the special requirements of this con- 
siderable and continually increasing company, 
the Roman Church is particularly well contrived. 

When Ada Vernham saw that a confessional 
was close at hand, and that a penitent was actually 
in it, there began gradually to dawn on her the 
fact that here possibly was an outlet for some 
of the suffering which was weighing her down. 
The particular application did not come to her 
at once. She understood that this other woman 
had found what she herself had feared she never 
could find, a confidant ; one before whom she 
could lay bare all the secrets of her heart, not 
only without fear of encountering censorious 
criticism, but actually with the probability of 
meeting with sympathetic comprehension. She 
envied this other woman. The confessor, like the 
man of medicine, must come into close contact 
with such a continual stream of disease, that a 
story like hers, extraordinary though it might 
appear to herself, would strike him as being 


A PENITENT 


135 


merely in the ordinary course of business. He 
would neither be surprised nor shocked. And 
to meet with somebody who would regard her 
eventful history as pure commonplace, and would 
advise on it as such, was a luxury she was con- 
vinced she could appreciate, and it was one which 
this other woman had. 

Why should she not have this luxury herself? 
Her desire for it grew greater. She began to 
watch, with envious eyes, the woman who, at 
that moment, was enjoying it. She was com- 
pletely ignorant of the forms which in the 
Latin Church attend auricular confession ; that is, 
she had not the faintest notion of how the pro- 
ceedings were actually carried on, but it seemed 
to her that this other woman was taking an un- 
conscionable time. Had she sinned against the 
entire decalogue, or was she making trumpery 
and long - drawn out admissions of feminine 
frivolities ? 

The service at the altar was concluded ; the 
priests and the censers vanished ; the voices 
ceased. Most of the worshippers rising, went 
out by twos and threes. In that great building 
only two persons, so far as she could perceive, 
were left besides herself and that platitudinous 
penitent ; she was convinced that the woman 


136 ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

was uttering platitudes. Her mood was growing 
irritable ; she was becoming possessed by such 
a strong desire to take advantage of the sup- 
positious relief afforded by the confessional on 
her own account, that she resented more and 
more its continued occupancy by another. She 
was not aware of it, but hers was not the frame 
of mind in which the Church of Rome desires 
that her penitents should be. Rosary or crucifix 
she had never had in her possession ; her know- 
ledge of the Breviary was absolutely nil. Not 
only was she ignorant of the prayers which are 
supposed to be proper to the penitent who is 
waiting to make confession, she was not aware 
that such an one was supposed to pray at all. 
Her mood was ’certainly not prayerful. Rather 
she was like some caged wild animal, who beats 
frantically against the bars, longing to escape. 
To her fevered eyes, quick just then to take 
superficial impressions from the objects which 
surrounded her, it seemed that the way of escape 
lay through the curtained wooden structure, from 
which that other woman still kept her out. 

At last — a long at last ! — there was a movement 
of the woman’s skirt ; it trembled ; she was rising ; 
she came out. Her back was turned towards 
Ada Vernham, so that she could not see her 


A PENITENT 


137 


face; she went down the side of the church, 
till, reaching one of the chapels, she fell on her 
knees before its altar. 

Ada Vernham’s opportunity had arrived. 

She continued to sit where she was, trembling 
all over now that her chance had actually come ; 
until, fearing that the priest might issue from 
his place, and that her chance might, after all, 
be lost, she rose upon unsteady feet, and, 
shivering like a person in a fever, went swiftly 
to the confessional. 

Kneeling, she rested her brow against the 
woodwork of the partition which divided her 
from the unseen priest, so overcome by the 
feelings which came sweeping over her that, for 
the time, she was bereft of speech. She was 
vaguely conscious that a voice addressed her from 
within, but what it said she could not tell. Her 
tongue was paralysed; the sound of many waters 
was in her ears ; a blinding mist was before her 
eyes. All self-control was lost ; it was as though 
she was floating helplessly in the swell of a re- 
sounding torrent, which bore her madly towards 
an unknown sea. 

The priest, probably not wholly unaccustomed 
to such episodes, possessed his soul in patience. 
The daily round of the confessional, in general 


138 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


trivial enough, must occasionally be alternated 
by the speechless agonies of frenzied hearts, and 
though the process of induration which attends 
familiarity must steel to some extent his feelings, 
there not improbably are periods when he finds 
it almost as difficult to listen as the penitent to 
speak. And it may be that experience warns 
him when one of these times of trial are at 
hand. It is possible that the auditor of human 
weakness, and of nothing else but human weak- 
ness, seated, with bowed head, on his narrow 
shelf within, clasping his crucifix with both his 
clinging hands, was conscious of a premonition 
that this woman, whose voiceless sobs shook 
the frail structure against which she leaned, 
was bringing to him a tale which he were not 
human if he could hearken to unmoved. And 
so he gave her time to find for herself the courage 
which should bring her to the sticking point of 
speech. 

When the minutes passed and she yet was 
still, he spoke to her again. 

‘Speak, daughter. Jesu listens. Throw your 
burden down before the Cross.’ 

Whether she heard or not, he could not tell ; 
but presently the floodgates of her heart were 
opened, her tongue was loosed, and she poured 


A PENITENT 


139 


into his ears a tale which, after all, is very old. 
When one thinks of the great host of the women 
who have told it, and, in imagination, sees them 
gathered together in their multitudinous array, 
dread witnesses of the injustice which dates from 
the beginning, and which bids fair to continue 
to the end, the sanest mind must totter, the 
hardest heart must shrink. She told it as one 
can only tell the tale which leaves the lips as 
if it were the speaker’s life-blood ; from the 
beginning, straight on, without pause or stay, 
or necessity for questioning. 

It seemed as if the confessor listened to the 
tale like one entranced. Within was perfect 
silence, and, when at last she stayed, there 
was silence still. 

In time the tale was told. With words, 
which one might be forgiven for suggesting 
scorched her lips, she asked for help, for advice, 
for guidance, to be directed to one landmark 
which might show to her the road. And still 
from within was none that answered. 

The silence became so marked that, even in 
her condition of hysteria, the woman could not 
but notice it. What did it forbode? That her 
sin was black as ink, unforgivable, the very 
sin against the Holy Ghost, beyond the juris- 


140 ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

diction even of the priest? Had the wild hope 
that she would obtain relief in the confessional 
been altogether hoped in vain ? Was there no 
relief even in that place for such as her? What 
did the continued silence mean?— that she was 
unfitted to be spoken to, even in admonition, 
and on her knees, by a priest of God? She 
called to the silent unseen priest to speak to 
her, with such a cry of agony that it must 
have been audible far down the church. 

And still there was none that answered. 

Her growing fears assumed portentous shape ; 
a shadow as of the supernatural was falling 
over her ; a horror of something awful, hidden, 
unknown. In very terror, with quaking limbs 
and pulseless heart, she began stealthily to rise 
from her knees, proposing to flee unassoilzied, 
from this benumbing silence, as from the wrath 
to come. While she still was rising, a sound 
was audible within. As she hesitated, whether 
to carry out her original intention ere a worse 
thing came to her, the little curtain which hid 
the confessor from the penitent was moved 
aside, and the priest looked out at her. 

Then there was silence, both from the woman 
and the man. 

The priest was in the prime of life, with a 


A PENITENT 


141 


face on every line of which was intellect ; a 
strong face ; the face of a man whom one 
would choose for friend. It was furrowed by 
those indentations which proclaim that their 
hearer is not of the happy ones — as it has 
been asserted — who have no history. He had 
the contour of the ascetic ; the eyes of the 
enthusiast. The woman glared at him as if he 
had been some dreadful ghost ; while he looked 
back at her with that expression on his pallid 
countenance which, with but a slight exercise 
of the imagination, it might be foreseen that it 
would wear when arraigned at the bar of the 
Eternal Judgment 

The woman was the first to speak. 

‘ Gilbert ! ’ 

‘ Madge ! ’ 

It was noticeable that in both voices was 
the same curious huskiness. Then, as if in 
saying so much, all that was possible was said, 
each again was still. They continued to stare, 
breathlessly, at one another, as if each one’s 
face had for the other a hideous, irresistible 
fascination. 

Soon the woman spoke again, in guttural 
whisper. 

‘What are you doing there?’ 


142 ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

‘God knows.’ Even as he spoke, the speaker 
shuddered. He crossed himself. Presently he 
added, with a bitternes which was all the more 
marked because the words were hardly uttered 
above a whisper : ‘ Demonstrating the truth of 
the Pauline declaration that all things work 
together for good to them that love God.’ 
And then again, immediately afterwards, ‘Work- 
ing out a life’s atonement by bearing my cross 
to Him crucified.’ 

He had in his hand a crucifix, and was holding 
it up before her eyes ; but whether in mockery 
or not she could not tell. As he saw and 
realised, the maze of wonderment which was on 
her face, something human came into his own ; 
he repeated, as if the words stuck in his throat, 
the name by which he had known her once upon 
a time. 

‘ Madge ! ’ 

What he said she plainly paid no heed to. 
Apparently she was groping for the threads which 
would enable her to unravel the puzzle. 

‘ Are you a priest ? ’ 

‘ It would seem so.’ 

‘ And — I have been — confessing — to you ? ’ 

‘ Indeed ! ’ 

She said nothing. She covered her face with 


A PENITENT 


143 


her hands, and she shuddered. He watched her 
quietly, as one might imagine the vivisectionist 
studies the living victim which writhes beneath 
his scalpel. He spoke to her, after some little 
time, with a dry precision of utterance which 
suggested that his words had been carefully 
considered. 

‘ Between you and me there can be no question 
of priest and penitent ; or, if there is, it is I who 
should be upon my knees to you. You must 
give me your address ; I will come and see you. 
Tell me where you live.’ 

She told him, falteringly. He spoke again — 
still with the same measured accent. 

‘ Go now ; and, if you will suffer me to speak 
to you in the guise of an adviser, you will go with 
a mind at peace. It is I who have to do battle 
with Apollyon, with the stealers of souls. Com- 
pared unto my sins, yours are whiter than snow. 
Let no nice dogma of theology delude you upon 
that point. It is I who have sinned ; not you. 
It is I who have brought you to this pass — 
although in doing it, I knew not what it was l 
did. Be not afraid. In the day of the great 
arbitrament, God will make it clear.’ 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE LAST REHEARSAL 

When she left the church, she found that she 
was hungry. The claims of her appetite asserted 
themselves even among the tumult of her 
emotions. It was one of the peculiarities of her 
constitution that, when she was hungry, ex- 
traneous compulsion seemed to be put upon her 
impelling her to eat ; hers was one of those 
healthy, if primitive organisations, which, in due 
season, must at any and every cost have food. 
It is men and women of this sort who are 
driven, by hunger, to deeds of violence ; of 
madness. 

Entering an eating-house, she made a hybrid 
meal. Printed bills were hung about the walls. 
One in front of her caught her eye. It was the 
announcement of the production of ‘ A Legend of 


THE LAST REHEARSAL 


145 


the Rhine/ It brought her back to the things 
of earth with a sense of shock. The last 
rehearsal was to take place that day. The call 
was for 11 A.M. Principals were directed to be 
on the stage, dressed in their appropriate 
costumes, punctually by that time. At one end 
of the place was a clock. It was after noon. 
Bolting some final mouthfuls of food, she hurried 
off. 

On the eve of an important production, even 
the best managed theatres are apt to be in a state 
of confusion ; in the Soho Theatre confusion was 
confounded. Everybody seemed to have lost their 
heads. The stage was waiting. It appeared that, 
search having been made for her at her lodging, 
the fact of her disappearance had created some- 
thing like a panic. Philip Basing had himself 
gone off helter skelter to attempt to solve the 
mystery. His cab dashed up just as she had 
entered the stage door. At sight of her he broke 
into a torrent of exclamations. He seemed to 
be half beside himself with excitement. 

‘ Good God ! I thought you’d bolted ! ’ 

‘ Bolted ! Why should I have bolted ? ’ 

* Goodness only knows ! But when your land- 
lady told me that you’d gone off in the middle 

K 


146 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


of the night without anybody having the faintest 
notion where or why, I thought that, for me, it 
was going to be a case of a razor or prussic 
acid. Move yourself! They’d almost come to 
blows before 1 left.’ 

‘But I haven’t dressed.’ 

She was moving towards her dressing-room. 
He caught her by the arm. 

‘ Oh, hang your dress ! Dress afterwards, or 
between the acts, or something, don’t keep them 
waiting any longer now. I don’t want to have 
a riot.’ 

Her reception by the company was not a 
cordial one. Mr Rayment, in particular, ad- 
dressed her with his wonted courtesy. 

‘ I do hope we haven’t hurried you. Basing 
wouldn’t let us begin until you came, so, of 
course, the longer you delayed your coming the 
better we were pleased. Cooling our heels in a 
hole like this, humbly hoping that a distinguished 
lady will, at her leisure, condescend to remember 
we are waiting, is just the kind of amusement 
we prefer. I have noticed more than once, my 
very dear Miss Vernham, how quick some people 
are at picking up the airs of a great actress, and 
nothing else.’ 


THE LAST REHEARSAL 


*47 

Miss Kintorn, who had taken her role of 
Emma, looked her up and down, she herself, 
like the rest of the company, being attired in the 
costume of her part. 

* I thought that this was to be a dress re- 
hearsal.’ 

‘Mr Basing wouldn’t let me stop to dress.’ 

Rayment commented. 

‘ That’s a pity. Since great actresses only 
take two hours to put themselves inside their 
clothes, we’d have waited gladly. We’ve been 
here half the day already, but that’s a trifle.’ 

Young Frank Norton whispered an inquiry 
into her ear — pointing his words with a wink. 

‘Been on the razzle, and lost the latch-key? 

I know what it is.’ 

John Tullett was the only one among those 
present who addressed her pleasantly. He looked 
at her keenly with his grave eyes. 

‘ I hope it is nothing serious which has detained 
you.’ 

She shook her head. She tried to smile. 

The sort of spirit which was abroad at the 
Soho Theatre could not have been better evinced 
than by the fact that the conductor of the 
orchestra actually ventured to put in a remark 


148 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


on his own account — that individual, in a theatre, 
being the last person who is supposed to have 
a soul which he should be allowed to call his 
own. 

‘ Can we go ? Or are we wanted ? * 

That was the remark which he made, speaking 
on behalf of the band. It brought the company 
back to a sense of the situation. Mr Basing did 
his best to get the better of his excitement. 

‘ Now, ladies and gentlemen — if you please.’ 

And they began. 

It might have been supposed that a rehearsal, 
commenced under such inauspicious circum- 
stances, promised badly. That the fact that the 
performers were almost grotesquely out of 
humour with each other, augured ill. Nor was 
the prospect bettered by the circumstance that, 
during the last few hours, the leading actress’s 
every nerve had been strained nearly to the 
breaking point ; that, even now, it needed but a 
touch to impel her on to the other side of that 
indefinable border line which divides sanity from 
madness. One might safely have predicted, for 
a rehearsal carried on under such conditions, a 
result approaching to fiasco. 

Such an aspirant to the prophetic vision 


THE LAST REHEARSAL 


149 


would have exhibited the traditional foolhardi- 
ness. The rehearsal went as smoothly, as truly, 
with as little sign of friction, as a well built, 
well oiled, well worked machine. It began well, 
progressed better, and finished best of all. That 
curious uncertainty which attends on things 
theatrical once more took those chiefly con- 
cerned completely by surprise. The performers 
were themselves amazed. Those parts of the 
play which, hitherto, had dragged, showed no 
signs of dragging now ; things went without a 
hitch from start to finish. Each one concerned 
seemed on his mettle, unwittingly, even some- 
times unwillingly. There was something in the 
air which entered into each actor and each 
actress, lifting them out of themselves, lending 
to their method, to their manner, just that 
vigour, that distinction which, up to now, had 
been chiefly lacking. Did any say that what 
the play most needed was vitality, that elusive 
something which breathes into the dry bones of 
the play-wright life? — why, it was alive, glowing 
with vitality, from the begining to the end. 

With the bringing about of this result, the 
actress who played the heroine was not a little 
concerned. She was indeed the heroine. Some 


ISO ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

new quality had come into her voice ; something 
which enriched it, making her smallest utterance 
a musical cadence. Philip Basing, sitting by him- 
self in a front row of the stalls, was struck by 
the transformation the instant her lips were 
opened. He had that, as things are, question- 
able gift, a sensitive ear. Ada Vernham’s stage 
voice, he had only been too conscious, was not 
the least of her drawbacks. Now, when she 
began to speak, the pleasure was so exquisite, 
that he suspected his senses of playing him a 
trick. The jarring note had gone. This was 
the voice of the siren, in itself the woven warp 
and woof of an enchantment. It thrilled his 
nerves with that extremity of pleasure which is 
akin to pain. For the fleeting minutes he 
realised what is not the least of life’s ecstacies. 
The satisfaction which the poet feels when he 
hears the words which he has strung together, 
sometimes with so much labour, given perfect 
utterance. 

‘ Bravo ! ’ he cried, even as soon as her first little 
speech was spoken. 

There were others who applauded, too. 

It might be that the applause got into the 
woman’s veins. Few mummers pretend to ex- 


THE LAST REHEARSAL 15! 

hibit the fullness of their powers when rehears- 
ing, few indeed to the extent which she did then. 
She became like one transfigured, the ideal heroine 
of the poet-dramatist’s most vivid, happiest 
dreams ; causing all who saw and heard her to look 
each other inquiringly in the face, asking : ‘ Who 

is this ? is this the coming actress come at last ? ’ 
When the first act was finished there came from 
every creature present a burst of spontaneous 
applause, not the sort of applause, which comes 
from the pliant histrion who does as he would 
be done by, but that sort which comes because 
it must 

They flocked about her to press on her con- 
gratulations. John Tullett put the general feel- 
ing into words. 

‘ If you act like that to-morrow, they’ll flock 
from all the far corners of the earth to see fine 
playing.’ 

‘ Don’t tell me that there’s nothing in the piece,’ 
exclaimed Philip Basing, with jubilant egotism, 
which they felt at the moment, was reasonable 
enough, ‘ when you see it played like that.’ 

Miss Vernham laughed. 

‘ Let’s get on ! Do you mind our taking the 
second act without a pause?’ 


152 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


There was no pause. 

The second act had been a bone of contention 
from the first. The common expectation thinly 
veiled, if veiled at all, was, that the second act 
was the rock on which the play would splinter. 
There were no signs of anything unpromising 
about it then. It went, as they phrase it, ‘ with 
a bang.’ Ada Vernham carried it through. She 
caught up such stitches as the dramatist might 
have dropped, giving to the fabric at least the 
appearance of being close and strong. Once 
more, at its conclusion, she had brushed aside 
their plaudits, renewing her petition that the 
play might again be continued without a pause. 

And it was. 

In the really dramatic moments of the final 
act she rose to a height, and exhibited a strength, 
which amazed even those whom already she 
had bewitched. When, at last the end was 
reached, there ensued that silence which is more 
eloquent than noise, since it suggests emotions 
which, at least, for the instant, are too profound 
for adequate expression. When that instant 
passed there came the tumult of their bravos. 

‘ Didn’t I tell you/ demanded Philip Basing, 
who seemed, as he gripped both her hands in 


THE LAST REHEARSAL 


153 


his, to be half delirious with delight, ‘ that you 
could do it? Didn’t I tell you you could act? 
Act ! Why, before to-morrow night is over, 
you’ll have proved, even to the satisfaction of 
those who hate me best, that “ A Legend of the 
Rhine” is the play of the generation! You’ll 
have proved it ! — you ! you ! you ! * 


CHAPTER XV 


LUCIAN MABBETT 

Returning from the triumph of that last 
rehearsal, under the influence of one sort of 
intoxication, Ada Vernham found an example 
of another sort of intoxication awaiting her at 
home. As she reached the door of her lodging, 
some one, who had been leaning against the wall, 
staggered towards her. For the moment she 
thought it was Gilbert Ellerslie, but only for a 
moment. 

‘ Hollo, m’ dear, how you find yourself ? 1 

This man had neither the voice nor the bearing 
of Ellerslie. She shrank from him. ‘You.’ 

‘ Yes, of course it’s me. Don’t it look like me? 
Who do you think it is ? ’ 

‘ I wish to have nothing to say to you.’ 

She inserted her latch-key. He raised his 
voice to something like a shout 


LUCIAN MABBETT 


155 

‘ That’s a pretty thing to say to your husband 
who’s been waiting in the dirty street for hours I 
How dare you speak to me like that ? ’ 

Perceiving that if she refused him admission 
a scene would be a certainty, she chose what 
she hoped might prove to be the lesser of two 
evils, — she let him in. He staggered after her 
into her sitting-room. When they had entered, 
without removing his hat, he stood in the centre 
of the room, on unsteady legs, looking about 
him as well as he was able. 

‘ This is a pretty place for a woman to live 
in whose husband’s starving in the streets — 
picks up filthy crusts out of the gutter while she 
gorges in a palace. How much do you pay for 
it? Thirty bob a week?’ 

He was very tall and very thin, unclean with 
that uncleanliness which is not only of the outer 
man. He wore a long black frock coat, a waist- 
coat of some fancy material, light trousers, a 
silk hat, patent shoes, — yet it is doubtful if, for 
the whole costume, any one would have given 
him a shilling. The garments were old, button- 
less, greasy, — foul ! As she regarded him, she 
asked herself, with a sort of impersonal astonish- 
ment, what, in her most hysteric moments, she 
could have seen in this man to have married 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


156 

him. Privation, and the sort of life he had 
been living, had left of his face nothing but skin 
and bones. He wanted shaving. His lips kept 
twitching. Out of his eyes there glared the 
thing which had entered into him. 

She addressed him with that courtesy which 
is of the essence of scorn. 

‘May I ask you to be so good as to tell me, 
in as few words as possible, what it is you want 
with me ? * 

‘ Everything, — that’s what I want, everything ! 
Nice question to ask a husband ! Been starving 
— asked everybody I’ve met for months, where’s 
my wife? Nobody seemed to know. I said to 
myself, she’s up to some disgraceful game, I 
know she is. Pal said to me this morning, she’s 
shopped at the little house in Soho. Saw your 
name in the bills — Ada Vernham— large as life 
— cried at the sight of it. Door-keeper wouldn’t 
let me in, — me, man high in the profession. 
Found out where you dossed, — landlady wouldn’t 
let me in either. Waited in the street for hours, 
— now she says, What ’ye want with me ? 
Everything, I tell you, everything ! * 

‘ What am I to understand by everything ? ’ 

He ticked the items off on his fingers, swaying 
to and fro as he did it. 


LUCIAN MABBETT 


157 


‘ Drink, board, lodging, clothes— especially 
drink.’ 

‘ I assure you, you will have none of those at 
my expense.’ 

‘ Must have drink — must have ! Look here, 
my girl, if I don’t have drink I shall lose my 
senses.’ 

She smiled — grimly. ‘Your what?’ 

‘My senses. It’s actual fact — literal truth. 
If I don’t have drink, I see things, dreadful 
things — drive me mad if I keep on seeing 
them. Listen to me. This morning, pal o’ 
mine gave me sovereign. Said to me, “Buy 
yourself some clothes.” Went to buy them. 
Got to shop — saw things creeping about 
clothes inside window. Couldn’t buy clothes 
with those things on them. Went and got 
something to drink, and I drowned ’em — kept 
on drowning ’em ever since. Now they’re 
dead. Tell you what — when I was waiting 
in the street saw some of them again — middle 
of the road. Feel as if they’re trying to get 
in here — through the wall.’ He stretched out 
his long thin arms in front of him, repeating 
with an earnestness which was both grotesque 
and ghastly. ‘ My girl, if I don’t have drink, 
I’ll lose my senses!’ 


158 ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

She looked at him inquiringly, wondering 
how much drink he would require to lose his 
life. There passed through her mind that 
scene in Charles Reade’s dramatic version of 
L’Assomoir, in which liquor is purposely 
placed within reach of the dipsomaniac. She 
wondered what would be the ethical aspect 
of her conduct if she were to ply this man 
with that for which his soul was craving. He 
sank on to a chair, his head dropped forward 
on to his chest ; he looked, out of the cavern- 
ous sockets, earnestly, at nothing at all. 

‘ I say, could I have a shop at your place ? 
It’s always been opinion o’ mine that husband 
and wife ought to act together. What ’ye 
think ? 1 

‘ I am afraid that, just now, there is no 
opening for you/ 

‘Not just now? — will be soon? — eh? Now, 
what sort of leading man have you got — man 
of presence — look the part?’ 

‘Tolerably, I believe/ 

‘ Only tolerably. Ah ! — I see. Now I look 
the part more than tolerably/ 

‘When you’re drunk?’ 

The question seemed to strike a chord which 
brought back to him a reminiscence of sanity. 


LUCIAN MABBETT 


159 

He straightened himself ; slapped his hand 
upon his knee ; his voice was steadier. 

‘There was a time when I looked the part 
when I was sober — my God, there was.’ 

‘Were you ever sober?’ 

He laughed — loudly. 

‘That’s a funny question to ask a man.’ An 
expression of cunning came on to his face. 
‘You think because I drink and you don’t, 
you’re clever — but perhaps you’re not so clever 
as you fancy. Because I’ve made a mess of 
my life, do you think you’ve made a good 
thing of yours?’ 

Her lips tightened. 

‘ Hardly.’ 

He held up his shaking hands in front of 
him, a few inches apart. 

‘There’s just that much to be got out of 
life, and no more. I get it my way, you get 
it yours, the Archbishop of Canterbury gets it 
his. Drink’s my way, the Archbishop of 
Canterbury’s got his way, and what’s your way, 
hang me if I know. But we’ve only got our 
whack, whether it’s Cantuar or me. Perhaps 
he likes his spread out thin, so as to make 
it last. I like mine laid on thick, and, by God, 
I’ll have it’ 


i6o 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


4 1 see. So you’re satisfied.’ 

‘Who’s satisfied? — Are you? Show me the 
man who says he’s satisfied, and I’ll show you 
a liar. Satisfaction’s not a substance, it’s a 
shadow — to get it, you’ve got to get among 
the shadows.’ 

She continued to eye him curiously, dimly 
conscious that, at least in his present mood, 
there was more in him than she had imagined. 
After a momentary pause he went on, resent- 
fully. 

‘Oh, yes, there are a lot of fools who like 
preaching, and there are a lot of other fools 
who like listening to it, but I like drink, and 
that is the only thing I do like; I’m not so big 
a fool as they are.’ 

She turned away, beginning to remove her 
gloves, which up to now, she had been wearing — 
vaguely realising, as she did so, that, between 
this man’s philosophy and her own there might 
after all be something in common. She con- 
demned the preachers, and ever had ; understand- 
ing that while speech was one thing, action was 
wont to be its opposite. None the less, her 
desire to be rid of him did not abate. The 
point was, that, while she was of those who 
have an almost unreasonable physical abhorrence 


LUCIAN MABBETT 


161 


of a vulgar row, she suspected that without a 
row, she hardly would be rid of him. She began 
to wish that she had not let him in, regretting 
her pliancy, as she usually did, too late. 

When she spoke, however, in her voice there 
was no trace of the irresolution which consumed 
her. 

‘ It is quite impossible that you can stay here/ 

He seemed to have returned from a condition 
of comparative mental clearness to stupidity. His 
head had fallen forward again upon his breast. 
He appeared to be more than half asleep. 

* I’m going to stay where I am. This is where 
my wife lives, and where my wife lives I live 
too/ 

She glanced at him. What would be the 
result, she wondered, if she were to treat him 
cavalierly? If she were to accord him, that is, 
the treatment which his condition and his con- 
duct merited ? She went and laid her hand upon 
his shoulder, a little gingerly, because his coat 
was foul. 

* Get up and leave my room this instant ! 9 

He looked upon her sleepily. 

* What ’ye sa y ? * 

1 Get up and leave my room ! 1 

She could not have said what exactly was the 

L 


162 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


answer she expected, but it certainly was not 
the one which she received. Turning slightly 
in his chair, he put up his hand so that it 
touched her arm — it was unpleasantly tremulous. 
With his other hand he pointed at the wall 
which was in front of him. She found his manner 
disconcerting. 

‘ Do you know anything of bugs ? * 

‘Of what?’ 

‘Of moths and beetles and things like that. 
I thought you might tell me what the thing is 
called. D’ye see it — in the corner there? It’s 
lying low. Now it’s a moth but sometimes it’s 
a beetle, and sometimes it’s a great ugly beast 
that comes blobbing at my face with big red 
wings. It’s never touched me yet, never quite. 
I’ve kept it off ; if it ever does I’ll go clean 
mad.’ 

‘You’re talking absolute nonsense. There’s 
nothing there whatever. You’re not in a fit 
condition to be abroad. Do you hear what I 
tell you ? Get out of that chair this instant and 
leave my room.’ 

‘ Are you watching it ? D’ye see it’s opened it’s 
wings? It’s stretching itself, it’s crawling up 
the wall — there ! ’ He gave a little start. ‘ It’s 
jumped off the wall — it’s going to fly at mel 


LUCIAN MABBETT 163 

Quick ! Give me a sheet of paper, I'll keep it 
off from me with that/ 

He looked frantically yet furtively about him. 
Feeling that the strongest measures might be 
the best, gripping him by both his shoulders, she 
lifted him bodily off his seat, intending, with or 
without his leave, to rush him towards the door. 
But as soon as she had raised him, he seemed 
to collapse, slipping through her hands in a heap 
on the floor. Shrieking like one beset by demons, 
which indeed he was, he caught so suddenly at 
her feet and ankles, that, taken unawares, she lost 
her balance, and came also headlong to the 
ground. The fall both bruised and frightened 
her. For some four or five seconds she lay 
quite still, while he continued to yell like a 
thing possessed. Presently loosing his hold, he 
became a little quieter. Regaining her feet, 
gasping for breath, going to the door of the 
room she called as loudly as she could for the 
landlady. No one replied. She called again ; 
still no reply. 

The house was a small one. The landlady 
and herself were its only occupants. She was 
aware that the woman had an uncomfortable 
habit of going out, without giving her notice of 
her intention, and of remaining out, sometimes 


i<54 ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

for hours at a time. Apparently she had gone 
out now. If so, she was alone in the place, 
with her husband. 

She had left him grovelling on the floor. Now 
rising, darting towards her, he seized her by the 
arm. 

‘ Don’t leave me ! — don’t leave me ! — I won’t 
be left!’ 

She looked him steadily in the face — feeling, 
as she did so, more and more strongly how 
hideous he was. The wild beast which was 
within her was beginning, as it were, to rouse 
itself from its stupor. She was becoming 
conscious of an inclination to close and grapple 
with him ; to pit her strength against his 
strength ; to repay him, with her own hands, 
for his manifold misdeeds. She felt, if it came 
to the sticking point, that she could do it — do 
it well. But, for the present she restrained 
herself. 

‘Are you going to leave my room?’ 

He seemed to have regained some of his senses. 
His tone was sullen. 

‘ I want something to drink. Why don’t you 
give me something to drink?’ 

An idea entered her mind. 

‘ There is nothing in the house. I’ll give you 


LUCIAN MABBETT 165 

the money for a bottle of whiskey if you’ll go 
and get it.’ 

‘ I’ll go if you’ll come with me.* 

‘ I’ll come with you.’ 

She thought to herself that, if she once got 
him out of the house, it would be hard if she 
did not manage to be rid of him — if she had to 
give him into custody. With that sort of acute- 
ness which is not uncommon in men in his 
condition, he read something of what was passing 
through her mind. Tightening his grip on her 
arm, he swung her round into the room with 
an exhibition of strength for which she was 
unprepared. He banged the door. 

‘You’re up to some damned trick — I know 
you ! You don’t leave this room — and I don’t 
either.’ Sanity, of a sort, seemed to have come 
back as swiftly as it went. Thrusting his hands 
into his trousers pockets, he stood — more steadily 
than he had shown any signs of doing yet — and 
glared at her. ‘ I tell you what it is. A pal 
of mine has offered me a shop with a company 
on tour. They’re at Peebles. You give me 
five pounds, I’ll fit myself out, and join to- 
morrow.’ 

‘You won’t have a penny from me.* 

‘Won’t I? Then I’ll stop here, and live with 


i66 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


you, and wherever you go, I’ll go too — I’m your 
husband ! It’ll be nice for you to have a com- 
panion in a rig-out like mine.’ 

‘You won’t stop here/ 

‘Who’ll stop me 

‘I will.’ 

‘How?’ 

‘ With these ! * 

She advanced towards him with her hands 
held out. Yielding to what, seemingly, was an 
uncontrollable impulse, she struck him, first 
with one, then with the other, a violent buffet on 
either cheek. He reeled. For the instant, he 
seemed stupefied. Then, snatching up her 
umbrella which, on entering, she had placed 
against the wall, he struck her with it on the 
arm — so forcibly that the stick was splintered 
and her arm fell to her side as if it had been 
paralysed. 

‘You ! ’ He loaded her with impreca- 

tions. Then, his mood changing, he began to 
snivel, the tears rolling down his cheeks. ‘ What 
did you hit me for ? I did nothing to you ! 
You cruel wretch!’ In a few moments there 
was another change. He began pointing eagerly 
in front of him, using the former uncanny 


LUCIAN MABBETT 167 

gesture. 4 D’ye see it ? in the corner there ? It’s 
a moth, it’s lying low 1 ’ 

There was a repetition of the previous scene, 
he working himself, all in an instant, into a 
condition of maniacal excitement, screeching, 
retreating, seeking to ward off, with frantic 
movements of his hands and arms, the winged 
horrors of his imagination, which assailed him 
in the air. Suddenly, as before, he collapsed. 
Only, this time he fell back on the horsehair 
couch, which had just been impeding his pro- 
gress, and lay quite still. She waited for a 
revival. None came. He never moved. She 
went and looked at him. He was asleep. 

He lay sideways on the couch, in a position 
which suggested singular discomfort. There was 
a bolster to the couch. His head was twisted 
dangling backwards over this, displaying his 
neck in a fashion which a headsman might have 
found convenient. One arm dangled on to the 
floor. His dirty coat had fallen open. Some- 
thing had slipped out of the pocket, — something 
in a case. It was a razor case, with a razor in 
it, — a comfortable thing for a man of his sort to 
have in his possession. 

There are women who have a constitutional 
distaste for razors. She was one of them. She 


i68 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


opened the blade, noting how it gleamed. She 
remembered with a shudder what horrible 
notions she used to have of the havoc which 
might be wrought with that strip of shining 
steel ; how she had always regarded it with a 
mingling of fear and fascination ; how, in her 
more morbid moods, she had dreamed of the 
deeds which it might do. 

She noticed the exposure of his throat Was 
that the jugular vein, that thick thing which 
showed so plainly through his dirty skin. If his 
jugular vein was severed, the man was dead, — 
had she not somewhere read that it was so? 
Was it sharp enough, — this razor she was 
holding? Would she have to cut him very 
hard ? Should she try, and see ? 

Was it of her own volition that, in her experi- 
mental, her inquiring mood, her hand stole 
towards his throat, — the hand which held the 
razor? With the edge of the blade she touched 
his skin lightly enough. At once a thin red line 
showed just where she had touched. He showed 
no sign of having been conscious of the contact. 
His stertorous breathing was, for the moment, 
the only sound. 

Suddenly there was another — the sound of the 


LUCIAN MABBETT 169 

opening door. Mechanically, she looked round 
to see who had opened it. 

It was the priest of the confessional — Gilbert 
Ellerslie. 


CHAPTER XVI 


THE PRIEST AS A MAN 

He stood for an instant with his hat in hand 
at the open door, then came forward quietly, 
without a word, to where she was bending over 
the sleeping man. He looked at the sleeper, 
then at her ; she, as if frozen into silence, 
looked back at him. Stooping, he took the 
open blade from between her unresisting fingers ; 
closing the blade, he crossed the room to place 
it on the mantelshelf. Turning, regarding her, 
he continued, for still some seconds, voiceless ; 
then, with a smile wrinkling the corners of his 
lips, he spoke at last. 

‘Yet they say that this is not an age of 
miracles.’ 

The sound of his voice seemed to relax the 
strain under which she had been labouring. 
She put her hands up to her face, and, sitting 


THE PRIEST AS A MAN 171 

down on the floor just where she had been 
standing, she moaned. He watched her, then 
asked a question. 

‘Who is it?* 

She answered without removing her hands 
from before her face. 

My husband/ 

He seemed to hesitate before he spoke; then 
to speak with precision, as if he were con- 
sidering each word before he uttered it. 

‘ I thought, from what you said this morning, 
that you and he were parted.’ 

‘ He has found me out — to-night/ 

‘ I see/ Going to the couch, he looked down 
at the sleeper. ‘ Is he drunk ? ’ 

‘ I don’t know. I think he’s mad. He frightens 
me/ 

As if in proof of her assertion, even as he 
spoke, she shuddered. He stooped to examine 
the scratch upon the sleeper’s throat; with his 
handkerchief he softly wiped away the blood ; 
he attentively scrutinised the unconscious face; 
raising the hand which dangled, inert, upon the 
floor, he felt the pulse. As he did so, something 
in his face seemed to harden ; a gleam came into 
his eyes. Gently returning the hand to its original 
position, he seemed to be turning something over 


172 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


in his mind. Going back to the mantelpiece, 
he adressed the woman, who still was crouching 
on the floor. 

‘ I wish to speak to you/ 

Removing her hands from before her face, 
slowly turning her head, she looked at him 
with, in her eyes, a mute eloquence of piteous 
appeal which was doglike rather than human. 
Gradually, and, it appeared, painfully rising, 
until she had attained her full height, she 
answered him one word. 

* Speak/ 

He spoke to her, coldly, quietly, with the same 
air of almost pedagogic precision. 

‘ I have considered what you said to me this 
morning, under the seal of confession* — again 
his lips were wrinkled by a smile. ‘ And I 
have decided, should the suggestion meet with 
your approval, to book passages in the next 
convenient Canadian liner for both you and 1/ 

* For both you — and I ! ’ 

Her words were spoken with a catching of 
her breath. He continued in the same bloodless 
monotone. 

‘There are still in Canada many places where 
men and women may live remote from their 
fellows ; to all intents and purposes in solitude. 


THE PRIEST AS A MAN 


173 


My suggestion is that I should purchase land in 
some such waste, and that there, in that wilder- 
ness, we should seek in the future atonement 
for the past/ 

‘Together?* 

Again there was that catching in her voice. 
His did not change. 

‘ Together, yet apart. I will have built two 
houses. You shall have the one, I the other. 
We will busy ourselves with good works. I will 
keep such ward and watch over you as a stranger 
may keep. All that I have shall be yours, 
— even my life, for, since I caused your life to 
be spoiled, it is fitting that you should have as 
much of mine as is left.’ He paused. She 
turned away. He added : ‘ And there your 
child shall be born.’ 

She plainly winced. Her tone was scornful. 

‘Your suggestion is an impossible one.’ 

‘How so?’ 

‘ Have you forgotten that to-morrow night I 
appear in a new play?’ 

‘ Are you wedded to the stage ? * 

She fenced with his question. 

‘ In the theatre, if you can act, there is 
nothing else that matters.’ 

‘ I see, Do you intend to act when you are 


i74 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


big with child? And who do you propose to 
proclaim as the infant’s father ? ’ 

Dropping on her knees beside the table, she 
buried her face on her outstretched arms. 

‘You have no right to speak to me like that!’ 

‘I have. You gave it me this morning.’ His 
face showed signs of agitation ; its impassivity 
became less marked. He turned a little aside, 
looking at the vacant air ; speaking as if he 
were giving utterance to something which he 
had carefully rehearsed, and from which he de- 
sired to eliminate all traces of feeling. ‘ I beg you 
to believe that whatever I would do would be 
done for you, for your good, for your well- 
being; and in that hope only. Even as I have 
brought you into this plight, so I would bring 
you out of it. For I, on my part, would make 
a confession unto you.’ 

He paused. When he spoke again, his voice 
was, if anything, drier than before, and harsher. 

‘ It was through me you fell. You think — you 
told me so this morning — that what I did was 
born of the moment ; a yielding to an unlooked- 
for impulse; without intention. I am not so 
sure. I was a solitary man ; a husband, yet 
wifeless ; mated, yet alone ; a hungry man, 
consumed by the pangs of an unreasoning 


THE PRIEST AS A MAN 


175 

passion. You were much to me ; to you I 
was little. You came into the empty calendar 
of my empty days bearing in your hands 
promise of the best which life can offer. I 
had loved you for more than a year. I had 
yearned for you ; I had burned for you ; 
yes, I had fought for you with worse than the 
beasts which were at Ephesus. I had dreamed 
of the glad, mad rapture of the moment in 
which I should hold you in my arms to make 
you mine. I had rehearsed it all in dreams ; 
such dreams ! The dreams of the man whose 
soul is consumed with longing for that which, 
of right, he never can possess ; the nightmare of 
the devils. Again and again I had all but 
caught you to my breast, but something stayed 
me ; I sometimes wondered what. Until that 
day/ 

The pitch of his voice remained unchanged ; 
but there had come into its intonation an intensity 
which was the more convincing since it owed 
nothing to the arts of the rhetorician. It was 
as though a living voice was struggling to escape 
out of the husk of a man. He had remained 
stationary since he had began to speak ; but, 
although not a muscle of his face moved, his 
naturally ascetic expression had become more 


176 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


strained, and moisture glistened on his cheeks 
and on his brow. The woman, still on her knees 
beside the table, had raised her face higher and 
higher as the words proceeded from his lips, 
until now, with head thrown back, parted lips, 
dilated eyes, she listened, as one who hangs 
upon a speaker’s words. 

He went on, like a person who, being deprived 
of his own volition, says not what he would, 
but what he must. His eyes seemed to be 
glancing down the long vista of the bygone 
years ; his tongue seemed to be compelled to 
the telling of the things which his glance 
revealed. 

‘ I had dreamed of you all night ; such dreams 
as the Satyrs dream. And in the morning, 
when I awoke, I said to myself that, ere the 
day had passed, they should be more than 
dreams. You came, as you were used to do, 
and walked with me, carelessly, among the trees. 
The day was warm and sunny. There was 
that in the air which added fuel to the flames 
of my desire. When I felt you near me the 
blood boiled in my veins. I could have bitten 
myself to the bone. We came into that quiet 
place. You turned to me; your breath caught 
mine ; I looked at you ; you were conquered by 


THE PRIEST AS A MAN 


177 


the look which was in my eyes ; you went all 
red ; and — then I knew that you loved me. 
And, in the very moment of the rapture and 
the madness, the bolt of heaven fell. I saw 
your mother looking at us from among the 
trees — the mother who had entrusted me freely 
with the companionship of her innocent child, 
in the full assurance that with me she would 
be with one who would devote his full strength 
to keep her stainless and unspotted from the 
world. It was as though I had been stricken 
by a sudden palsy. I heard her cry. I saw 
her fall. When, in the first tumult of our horror, 
we went to her, frightened things as we were, 
she was dead ; dead upon the sward. There 
was a look upon her face which branded itself 
upon the speculum of my brain; I see it always; 
it will confront me at the judgment-seat of 
God/ 

The volume of his voice had become thinner 
and thinner; until at last he was speaking in 
what might, with some correctness, be described 
as an attenuated wail. His intensity was 
painful ; the more so since it was plainly the 
intensity of a man whose passion, if he would 
but give it rein, would blaze with the blasting 
heat of a volcano. The woman listened with 

M 


i78 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


various and seemingly inconsequent emotions, 
first lightening and then darkening her face, in 
a fashion which an onlooker might have found 
perplexing. Her bosom rose and fell ; her 
breath came quicker ; tremulous movements 
seemed to agitate her hands ; her cheeks were 
glowing. 

‘When your mother died, my passion did not 
die with her. Would that it had. When you 
disappeared, I was as one stark mad. I looked 
for you under every stick and stone, in every 
nook and every cranny. I set them searching 
for you in all the towns and cities of the world ; 
in all its secret places. And when at last I 
was forced to the conclusion that you must be 
dead, I died too — though my passion still lived 
on, to lash me, by day and by night, with 
scorpions.’ 

For the first time a marked change took place 
in his utterance. He spoke with such a bitter- 
ness of irony that one would hardly have been 
surprised to see his lips scorched as though it 
had been by vitriol. 

‘ Certain Catholic teachings had always appealed 
to a particular side of my nature. In my 
extremity it seemed to me that the only road 
to salvation was through the portals of the 


THE PRIEST AS A MAN 179 

Church. If I became a priest, I might subdue 
the flesh ; by continual lacerations, might bring 
my unruly passions into a state of due sub- 
jection. So I assumed the tonsure ; undertook 
to act as finger-post along the way which I 
myself had failed to find ; went through the 
form of putting away from me my manhood, in 
the hope that, in course of time, the form would 
become a fact. And so, for years, I have been 
struggling to convince myself, amid the wail of 
penitential psalms, and the ignominy of un- 
ending penances, that by faith I have won 
peace; by submission, strength. Whether it is, 
or is not so, I cannot tell ; I have not attained 
to the measure of the Delphic standard. I am 
what I am. God made me ; His also be the 
unmaking. I have gained this much, that I am 
content to leave the issue in His hands.’ 

He was still. She, for a time, allowed the 
silence to remain unbroken, still kneeling, looking 
at her hands which were on the table in front 
of her, the fingers of which she continually 
interlaced. When she spoke, it was to ask a 
question softly, and as if half-shyly, for which 
he probably was unprepared. 

‘ Your wife is dead ? ’ 


180 ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

His lips tightened. She might have struck 
him by the way in which he started. 

* They tell me so/ 

She glanced quickly up at him. 

‘ They tell you so ? Don’t you know ? * 

He hesitated before he answered sullenly. 

* She is dead.’ 

He slightly altered his position, turning more 
away from her. His figure became more rigid ; 
into his voice there began to come a ring 
of passion ; his bearing was that of a man 
who was fighting, to use his own reference, 
with worse beasts than those which were at 
Ephesus. 

‘ I have sometimes inquired of myself, if you 
were not dead, where were you? What were 
you doing? This morning you supplied me 
with the answer. I have made to you my con- 
fession because of the confession which you 
made to me. You showed how from the one 
thing ill done, there shall proceed a harvest of 
plenteous festers ; how from the seed sown by 
the wicked man, the Upas tree ascends corrupt- 
ing all the air. It is I who have made of you 
the thing you have become. 

His tone, all at once, had ascended to a pitch 


THE PRIEST AS A MAN 


181 


of frenzy ; now it dropped, so that he spoke like 
a man who was fatigued. 

‘ Mine is the burden, mine is the sin ; for the 
first cause shall be the last cause, and the crop 
of the tares shall be reaped by him who planted 
the weed. Even at the eleventh hour I would 
keep you out of hell ; I would snatch you from 
the very door, for if they drag you in, what 
place in hell will be kept for me? — for me, who 
caused you to be damned. So, since in cities 
a woman in your condition and of your reputa- 
tion, needs must stand abased, and, because of 
her abasement, in the stress of continual tempta- 
tion, I would beg you to believe that in the 
wilderness, away from the habitations of men, 
there is, for such as you and I, a freer, a purer 

air, so that one seems to stand in the Very 

Presence. I entreat you to commit yourself to 
my safe keeping ; and I entreat you the more 
because once I failed. Suffer me to find and 
keep the Cross by finding and keeping it for 
you. I will not cross the threshold of your 

house ; I will be to you a hewer of wood and a 
drawer of water ; and as I shall be your servant 
in things temporal, so also I shall be your 

servant in things spiritual, a continual wrestler, 


i 82 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


on your behalf, in prayer. For, in truth, I 
am persuaded that your salvation will mean 
mine.’ 

He waited as if for her answer. When it 
came it was possibly again of an unexpected 
tenor. She spoke, after what was apparently an 
interval for reflection, very softly, with her eyes 
cast down. 

‘You say — that once — you loved me/ 

‘ It is true ! ’ 

‘Is your love, then, dead?’ He was silent. 
He clenched his fists. ‘ Are you so sure that it is 
dead — so very sure? I wish you to answer me/ 
Her wish remained ungratified. She peeped 
out of the corners of her eyes at his averted 
face and figure, speaking in a strain of light, 
indeed, playful satire, which was in striking contrast 
to his sombre heat. ‘ Is it your experience that 
when a man of your temperament, and a woman 
of mine, live at a little distance from each other, 
alone, in a solitary place, any lingering shred 
of feeling which either may have had for the 
other grows more or less ? Does such continuing 
undisturbed propinquity sever or attach? Al- 
though I am all the sinner that you say I am, 
I am still a woman ; and you, I fancy, although 
a priest, are still a man. Should, by any mis- 


THE PRIEST AS A MAN 183 

chance, a puff of wind rekindle the expiring 
embers, it would be a predicament in which 
neither would venture to seek safety for oneself 
by the desertion of the other. I think that, on 
reflection, you will perceive that you have sug- 
gested a hazardous experiment/ 

His answer, hoarsely uttered, was a repetition 
of his former words. 

‘ I entreat you to commit yourself to my 
safe keeping, and the more because once I 
failed/ 

She put up her hand, as if to hide a smile ; 
there was mischief in her eyes. 

‘ Why the more because once you failed ? That 
you may fail again ? Be not too rash ; protect 
your strength from too severe a trial/ 

He confronted her with fiery glances. 

* I’m not afraid of you — neither of what you 
were, nor of what you are/ 

She was silent. Then, as her eyes met his, 
there came a look into her face which suddenly 
transfigured her. 

‘ It may be that I am afraid of you, and that 
my frailty may be yours/ 

He looked quickly from her, clutching at the 
corner of the mantelshelf. Then, for the first 
time, she 'rose from her knees, When she spoke 


184 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


again, her manner, like her voice, was calm and 
collected. 

‘ Take my advice, let me dree my weird. 
Women of my sort are sent into the world to 
be snares unto men.’ 

‘ Madge Tregarthen ! * 

‘ Gilbert Ellerslie ! Is it possible that you 
believe the fabulists, the tellers of the tales, and 
think that women submit themselves to men 
against their will? Among the multitudes there 
may be such ; I have not met them ; nor, I doubt, 
have you. What you did to me, you did because 
I chose. Women, for reasons of their own, in 
such matters, suffer men to suppose them weak- 
lings/ 

‘ Madge Tregarthen ! * 

‘ There is one form of nudity which men, 
women, avoid before all others — the naked truth. 
Let you and I confront it, once for all. My 
temperament and yours beat pulse for pulse ; 
if anything, my blood, I think, may be the hotter. 
As for your scheme of redemption, the thing 
that is done, is done ; not all the waters of all 
the oceans shall wash away the stain. That 
may not be the teaching of the Church ; it is 
the fact ; you know it is the fact. We have 
sinned and we have suffered ; and the sin and 


THE PRIEST AS A MAN 185 

the suffering are with us still, and shall be with 
us. To flee together into the wilderness, would 
be to pile Pelion upon Ossa ; to pass from the 
frying-pan into the fire. You may not cleanse 
me, and I may not cleanse you. I know not 
if there are waters of purification, but you and 
I shall not find them by becoming neighbours 
in the wilds of Canada/ 

She stood drumming with her fingers on the 
table, her eyes fixed steadily on him. He, on 
his part, kept his face averted, as if resolute 
not to meet her glances. 

‘ As for the confession which I made to you 
this morning, I recommend you not to attach 
to it too much importance. Confessions are 
made by folk in their hysteric moments ; in 
their hours of sanity they keep their own counsel. 
Now that I am sane, it occurs to me that it is 
you who are hysteric/ 

‘ What you call hours of sanity are those times 
of madness when men and women try to live 
without God in the world/ 

‘The sort of religion you represent suggests 
to me a nervous system unnaturally strained/ 

‘There is no peace without religion/ 

‘Have you found peace with it?' 

‘I have/ 


1 86 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


‘Your looks, then, play you false. I am 
conscious that I have not made the best of life, 
though I am not clear as to what making the 
best of life really involves, or if there are any 
that do attain to the superlative degree. But 
of this, in my saner moments, I am assured ; 
that it becomes us to meet, cheerfully, those 
things which must be met, and not, having 
called the tune, to whine when the piper presents 
his bill. For my part, I am going to have 
another fling for fortune. This afternoon, for the 
first time, I realised that I might have in me 
the making of an actress. At the rehearsal I 
took them all by storm. If, to-morrow night, 
I can act again as I did then, I need have no 
fear of standing, in the immediate future, in 
want of material resources. Let me win a 
sufficiency of pence ; I promise you I will walk 
in the ways of circumspection. It is want of 
bread, not love of evil, which has brought me 
into the plight I am. The world is hard upon 
a hungry woman. That is the very gist and 
kernel of all the knowledge I have learned.’ 

‘ I have money. Take what you will of 
{nine/ 

‘Thank you. I appreciate your offer. But 


THE PRIEST AS A MAN 187 

would not the world regard askance my living 
at your expense?* 

There was a lengthy pause. He seemed to 
be making an effort to get the better of some 
unexpressed emotion. He faced her, speaking 
with his former tone of cold severity. 

‘ Y ou have not yet drunk deep enough of the 
waters of bitterness ; you are of those who must 
drink their fill. Endure with me thus far. Since 
you that were dead are now alive again, suffer 
me to keep somewhat in touch with your move- 
ments, so that, in time of trial and of tribula- 
tion, you may know where to find the service 
of a friend.* 

‘ Willingly.* 

* Let me sometimes see you ; or let me hear 
of you by letter.’ 

* Both ! you may come and see me when you 
will, or I will write to you when there is any- 
thing to write about, though I am the worst 
correspondent in the world.* 

‘And — this man?’ He pointed to the sleeper 
on the couch. ‘ Is it your wish that he should 
stay ? * 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

‘He is my husband. After all, in the lives 
of women who have histories, there may be 


1 88 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


occasions on which any sort of husband is better 
than none.’ 

His tone was colder, as if he resented hers. 
He repeated his inquiry. 

‘ Is it your wish that he should stay ? * 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE EVE OF THE PRODUCTION 

As the priest put his question for the second 
time, the sleeper moved. It was as though he 
passed from the nightmare of a slumber to 
the more dreadful nightmare of awaking. With 
a sudden, troubled movement, he gathered him- 
self into a sitting position at the extreme edge 
of the horsehair sofa. Although his eyes were 
open at their widest, the things which were 
went unseen ; he was in the presence of the 
spectres of his imagination, apparently continuing 
to wrestle with the dream with which he had 
been struggling in his sleep. There was sweat 
upon his cheeks, the muscles of his face seemed 
to be in involuntary motion ; his whole body 
was in a tremor as of agony ; he continually 
gesticulated with his hands and with his arms, 
screaming rather than speaking. 


190 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


From his first words they thought he was 
speaking to them ; a moment’s attention, however, 
showed them they were wrong. 

‘You think yourselves clever, don’t you? But 
I’m your match! Deep as the devil? But then 
I’m deeper! That’s the hundredth time you’ve 
thought you’d got me by the throat — isn’t it? 
But you haven’t got me yet! And you never 
will, — no, never ! I’m ready for you all the time ! 
I won’t touch you, and you shan’t touch me, and 
when you think you’ll fasten your dirty selves 
upon my throat, you’re wrong ! Oh, yes, I see 
you on the floor, on the wall, on the ceiling, in 
the cursed air, millions of you. Buzzing, buzzing, 
buzzing, — sloppy, slimy, sprawling great winged 
beasts, with your yellow eyes. You think you’ll 
frighten me because you keep on changing colour, 
but I’m not afraid. You’ve come so far, and 
you’ll come no farther. Look here, I’ve got 
something which will drown you all. Ah ! I 
thought you’d begin when you got a sight of it. 
Don’t touch me ! don’t ! don’t ! ’ 

Drawing a flat half-pint bottle out of his 
pocket, he flourished it in the faces of his 
imaginary foes — that livid, ever-shifting phan- 
tasmagoria. He shrieked at them, striking at 
the vacant air with convulsive motions of his 


THE EVE OF THE PRODUCTION 


191 


limbs, his movements resembling those of a 
puppet which is pulled by strings. Unstopper- 
ing the bottle, he applied it to his lips ; spring- 
ing to his feet as he did so, with a yell of 
triumph. 

His wife and the priest, taken unawares by the 
sudden waking, had, up to this point, remained 
mute spectators of his proceedings. Now, 
conscious that the man’s notion of a remedy 
was, in reality, an aggravation of his disease, the 
priest moved towards him. 

‘ Give me that bottle ! ’ 

He was too late. Mr Mabbett, with a dexterity 
born of practice, had already drained the con- 
tents to the dregs. All that the priest received 
for his interference was the empty bottle, thrown 
with considerable violence, full into his face. 
Putting up both his hands he staggered back- 
wards. 

The woman gave an exclamation of sym- 
pathy. 

‘ Has he hurt you ? ’ 

* It is nothing ! The man is mad 1 * 

Mr Mabbett was mad just then — stark mad. 
The contents of the bottle, whatever they had 
been, had made of him, for the time, a raving 
lunatic. Having hurled his missile, he stood, 


192 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


with outstretched arms, staring at the man he 
had assailed. Possibly his diseased mind per- 
ceived in him a materialisation of his imaginings 
While the priest had still both his hands up to 
his face, with a yell, either of rage or of terror, 
he rushed at him, and twisting himself about his 
body in an octopus-like embrace, he bore him 
headlong to the ground. In the struggle which 
ensued it seemed, at first, as if the priest had 
met his match. Already partially stunned and 
blinded by the blow from the bottle, the strength 
lent to his antagonist by delirium appeared to 
exceed his own capacity for resistance. They 
fought on the floor like two wild beasts, Mr 
Mabbett doing his best to keep the other 
down. 

As the woman stood looking on, one could 
not but perceive how rapidly her desire to 
interpose increased. More than once her glances 
travelled towards where the priest had placed the 
razor on the mantelshelf, as if she were meditat- 
ing on the truth of the axiom that desperate 
cases require desperate remedies. Once, at least, 
she started in its direction ; then stopped. Mr 
Mabbett, having got the priest down under him, 
was worrying him in the frenzied fashion of some 
bid houn d. The woman arrived at in stant 


THE EVE OF THE PRODUCTION 


193 


decision. Putting her arms about his throat 
she dragged him backwards. Yelling, he sprang 
at her as at his former antagonist. The priest 
regained his feet. Immediately there was a 
general melee, — the two against the one. 

On a sudden, Mr Mabbett, having apparently 
enough of it, darting from them, dashed from 
the room, and down the stairs like a thing 
possessed. They heard him rush through the 
front door and into the street, shrieking still. 

They stood listening, with blanched faces. 

The priest moved towards the door. 

‘Let him go/ said the woman. 

He shook his head. 

‘ He is not in a fit state to be at large.’ 

He went down the stair — she after him. When 
they got into the street, Mr Mabbett was already 
out of sight. All was still. Either from choice, 
or from compulsion, he had ceased to yell. They 
looked into each other’s faces. His was marked 
in more places than one ; ere long it would be 
bruised and swollen. There were traces of blood 
upon his cheek. 

‘ What’s that ? ’ she asked. 

‘He bit me.’ 

Fire gleamed in her eyes. 

‘ I wish you had killed him ! ’ 

N 


194 ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

‘ Hush ! ’ He searched her face with his eyes. 
‘ Has he hurt you ? ’ 

Her thoughts went back to the moment of his 
entrance. 

‘ I wish you had let me cut his throat before 
you interrupted me.’ 

‘Would you rather have had his blood upon 
your hands?* 

‘ Why not ? He tried to kill you ! He would 
have killed me if he could ! ’ 

‘ I would rather he had killed me than I him.* 

‘I wouldn’t.’ 

‘ He is your husband.’ 

What’s that matter? By labelling a creature 
like that husband, do you make him sacred ? 
A brute’s a brute, labelled as you please.’ 

He looked at her for a moment, in silence. 
There was more humanity in his manner, and 
in his voice. 

‘You must be protected from him. You must 
refuse him admission, if he returns ; it will not 
be safe for you.’ 

She laughed. 

‘ I fancy that it won’t be safe for him.’ 

He touched her arm ; his voice softened. 

‘Don’t talk like that. It is not like you. 
You are better than your words.’ 


THE EVE OF THE PRODUCTION 


195 


She looked away. 

‘ Am I ? I don’t know. One is the equal 
of one’s environment.’ 

‘Not of necessity.’ 

‘A woman in my position is. Don’t talk like 
a priest, talk like a man. I’m what my tempera- 
ment has made me ; and my temperament, in a 
sense, is my environment.’ 

He sighed. 

‘If at the first you had been fitly married, 
you would have been a noble woman.’ 

She laughed again. 

‘If! — if what had happened had not happened, 
who knows that there might not have happened 
worse?’ She changed her tone. ‘But you must 
go ! Do you know that I must keep myself free 
from worry, in the best of health and spirits, 
and not subject myself to undue fatigue, or the 
risk of catching cold ? These things have been 
laid upon me as a strict injunction ! For to- 
morrow night is to be the maddest, merriest 
night of all my nights. I’m to infect the world 
with the fever of fine acting. And who can do 
whose mind and body are not both at ease? — 
Good-night.’ 

She extended to him her hand. He retained 
it in his. 


196 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


‘May it be the good-night you speak of, and, 
as you hope, the forerunner of a happier day/ 

‘ Are you always going to be a priest, and 
never again a man? I liked you better as a 
man. For, to my liking, the world holds nothing 
better than a man — that is one/ 

As if fearful of what he saw in her face, he 
bent his head, releasing at the same time her 
hand. 

Someone came hastening up, — a girl, with a 
shawl thrown over her head. She paused in 
front of them. 

‘ Miss Vernham ? Mrs Basing told me to give 
you this/ 

‘ This * was a slip of paper. The actress opened 
it. On it was written in a hand which she knew 
to be Mrs Basing’s — 

‘ Come to me at once ; baby’s dying/ 

‘ Baby, dying ? ’ She repeated the words which 
were written, as if she found them hard to 
believe, or difficult to understand. ‘ Mrs Basing’s 
baby ? ’ 

The girl, whom now she recognised as that 
lady’s solitary maid, answered quickly, — she was 
scant of breath, as if she had been running. 

Yes, miss, Mrs Basing’s afraid that he is 


THE EVE OF THE PRODUCTION 


197 


dying. She’s in dreadful trouble, and says 
please will you come to her at once.’ 

‘ Oh, yes, at once. Go and tell her I am 
coming. I will get my hat. I shall be with her 
as soon as you are.’ 

The girl ran off. The actress turned to re-enter 
the house, seemingly oblivious of Gilbert Ellerslie’s 
continued presence. He checked her. 

‘What is the matter? Who is this Mrs 
Basing ? ’ 

* It’s only a baby — nothing of any consequence ; 
only to the mother.’ 

She vanished up the stairs. When in a moment, 
she re-appeared, he still awaited her upon the 
doorstep. He fell in at her side, without a 
word, as she started. She walked quickly. The 
Basings occupied a flat in the Charing Cross 
Road, within a short distance of her lodging. 
As they went, neither spoke to the other ; but, 
when they reached the house, he addressed to 
her two or three valedictory sentences. 

‘ I will wait till you return. Remember I am 
a priest. If there is need of me, do not forget 
that I am here.’ 

She answered nothing; it was doubtful if she 
realised the meaning of what he said. 

When she reached the apartment which the 


i9« 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


Basings used as drawing-room, dining-room, and 
study combined, she found that an impromptu 
bed had been made up for the baby on the 
couch. The mother knelt on the floor at its 
side. With the exception of the maid, who was 
hovering tearfully in the background, the mother 
and the child were alone. The actress removed 
her hat as she entered ; the mother, looking up, 
spoke in a whisper. 

‘ He’s dying ! My little baby ! And to- 
morrow’s the night of Philip’s play. Baby’ll 
never see it ! ’ 

Although the mother’s final lamentation 
approached pathos, it was not in that light it 
struck the listener. Life’s tragedies are con- 
tinually enacted within the border-lines of what 
we call bathos ; what ‘ critics ’ are apt to call 
‘ real tragedy ’ is only found, as a rule, upon ‘ the 
boards.’ The listener knew that the mother’s 
interest was represented by three things — the 
baby, her husband, and her husband’s play. 
Circumstances had so affected her mental stand- 
point, that, at least for a moment, the three 
items had assumed almost equal dimensions ; 
she scarcely could think of one without the 
other. 


THE EVE OF THE PRODUCTION 


199 


Ada Vernham knelt at Mrs Basing’s side. 
She leaned over the child. 

‘ How long has he been like this ? * 

‘ Only an hour or two.’ 

‘ What’s the matter with him ? * 

‘ Convulsions.’ 

‘ Haven’t you sent for a doctor ? * 

‘ He’s just gone. He was very kind. He’s 
coming back again ; he couldn’t stop. I don’t 
think baby’ll stop long either.’ 

The smile with which she spoke was more 
pathetic than tears. 

‘ Where’s Mr Basing ? ’ 

‘I don’t know. He’s very busy. He’s been 
out all day. I haven’t seen him since this 
morning, when he went out to the last rehearsal 
of his play.’ 

‘Haven’t you any notion where he is? He 
ought to be sent for. I have a friend outside 
who will go and look for him if you have any 
idea where he’s likely to be.’ 

‘ I haven’t. I never know where he goes. 
His friends aren’t mine. You see/ she added, as 
if speaking to excuse him, even in the hovering 
presence, ‘ I always stop at home with baby.’ 

Ada Vernham was silent. 

It did not need a practised eye to tell that 


200 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


the child would not see its father’s play — unless, 
indeed, it was from the other side of the curtain. 
It lay in that condition of absolute quiescence, 
and one might add, acquiescence, which is not 
one of the least infrequent characteristics of a 
baby’s dying. Babies, some of them, do die for 
such seemingly little reasons, reasons which, to 
their elders, seem to be none at all ; and they 
die, too, in such perfect peace, as if it were a 
mere nothing ; but a little tottering, toddling 
step back from where they came. 

Among other things hot baths had been used 
to bring the child back from its convulsions. It 
lay swaddled in towels, with only its small face 
visible. It was so still, it scarcely seemed to 
breathe. Only an hour or two before its mother 
had supposed it to be rivetted to life by ropes 
of steel ; now plainly the last of the silken 
threads was parting before her eyes. 

Odd, in how short a time, and for how little, 
a baby dies. 

Even as Ada Vernham was leaning over it, 
there came another convulsion. They did all 
that could be done ; which, for so small a child 
in such a condition of exhaustion, was very 
little. When it was back again upon the couch, 


THE EVE OF THE PRODUCTION 


201 


the mother was crying as if her heart would 
break. 

Someone or something had sent the tears. 
They fell upon the little quiet face. 

The outer door was opened. Supposing it 
was the doctor returning, Ada Vernham rose to 
meet him. It was Philip Basing. He entered 
with an air of jubilation, evidently fresh from a 
convivial scene. 

He greeted his leading lady by grasping both 
her hands. 

‘ Well met ! I’ve been telling everyone of your 
triumph of this afternoon, and predicting that 
by this time to - morrow you’ll have set the 
spheres ringing with your fame! Wife!’ Turn- 
ing to her, laughing that almost boyish laugh 
of his, for the first time he perceived that there 
was something wrong. The laughter faded from 
his lips, the light from his eyes. ‘What’s the 
matter ? * 

His wife was holding something in her arms 
which she strained to her bosom, something which 
was very still. She said simply, as well as her 
choking sobs would let her, ‘ Baby is dead.’ 

So that the precursor of the production of 
Philip Basing’s play was the passing of his 
chile}. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


IN FRONT 

The house was fairly filled. Mr Boulger of The 
Daily Wire , standing at the entrance to the 
stalls, remarked on the fact to Mr Stayner of 
The Universe. 

‘Quite a crowd for the Soho. I wonder how 
many first nights I’ve attended here of pieces 
which have been failures. It’s easy to gibe at 
superstition, but when a theatre has been remark- 
able for nothing but failures for something like 
twenty years, I think I should hesitate before 
I put my money into it, or my play.’ 

‘A play of yours never could be a failure 
anywhere/ 

Mr Stayner was of the new school of critics, 
« — in print, as in life, he was genially acid. 

‘ Think not ? I wish I could conscientiously 

say as much of one of yours. When a theatre 


IN FRONT 


203 


becomes associated with nothing but fiascos there’s 
something wrong with it ; a wise man steers 
clear.’ 

‘ Is a fiasco, in your sense, sometimes a play 
which is too good to succeed?’ 

‘A fiasco is a play which doesn’t pay its ex- 
penses. My definition’s simplicity itself, my 
boy.’ 

‘I see. Your only estimate of the value of 
a play is a commercial one. It is not surpris- 
ing that The Daily Wire is so powerful an 
organ of public opinion.’ 

Mr Boulger looked at his colleague. 

‘You’re too clever for me, Stayner — and 
too young. There’s Mrs Masey ; I’ll go and 
talk to her.’ 

‘Yes. Is Mrs Masey ninety? or is it 
ninety-one ? ’ 

Mr Boulger went, with a laugh, to talk to 
Mrs Masey, that theatrical evergreen. Mr 
Stayner moved to his stall ; the next seat to 
his was occupied by Mr Pinsent, who writes 
for so many papers none but himself can 
number them. He addressed himself to the 
newcomer. 

‘How do, Stayner. You’re looking ill.’ 

‘Thank you, Pinsent. I’m feeling ill.’ 


204 ADA VERNHAM, ACTRES 

‘You’ll be feeling worse before we’re through.* 

‘ I anticipate it, fully.’ 

Mr Pinsent leaned over towards his col- 
league ; he spoke to him in confidence. 

‘ I’m told that Basing’s play is awful 
twaddle.’ 

‘Would it not be unreasonable to expect 
Mr Basing to be in a minority? I never do.’ 

‘ The man’s conceit’s amazing. I hear that 
he’s been going about telling everybody that 
his play is the play of the generation. That 
sort of thing makes a man feel bad.’ 

‘Have you ever written a play?’ 

‘ I shouldn’t go about telling everybody it’s 
the play of the generation if I had.’ 

‘No. You would leave it to your friends. 
I should discover it at once.’ 

‘ He went down to the Gaiety bar, and told 
Cattell — you know Tommy Cattell, editor of 
The Public Pulse ? ’ 

‘ The name’s immortal ; also, I fear, the man.* 

‘ Cattell’s one of the best fellows in the 
world — a little too fond of scissors and paste 
— thinks writing’s easier than cutting grass 
— believes that all men, when once they’ve 
got the trick of it, do it much of a muchness 
—one of the last chaps in the world to gas 


IN FRONT 


205 


to. Well, Basing went and told him, in front 
of a lot of other fellows, that the plays of this 
generation were its disgrace.’ 

‘There must be something in the man.’ 

‘I should think there was — cheek! Why, 
more than half the fellows who were listening 
had written plays themselves.’ 

‘Which shows, if Mr Basing was acquainted 
with the fact, that he knew what he was 
talking about.’ 

‘ Then he said right out loud, that he was 
going to show them what a play ought to be ; 
if they came and saw “ A Legend of the 
Rhine” then they’d know.’ 

‘Well! These several years I have been 
seeking to ascertain what a play ought to be. 
We are here to learn.’ 

‘ My boy, I’m told by those who ought to 
know, that it’s nothing else but blankety verse 
— slops and slush — amateur drivel. Not a 
workmanlike bit in it.’ 

“‘For what we are about to receive, may 
the Lord make us truly -thankful.” ’ 

Mr Stayner closed his eyes, as if he were 
composing himself to slumber. 

Mr Fairlight, that dilettante haunter of first 
nights, looked round the house before he 


206 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


took his seat. He addressed himself to 
George Lascelles, the editor - proprietor of 
Sphinx. 

‘ Do you know that the first thing I do on 
entering a theatre, or a court of justice, is to 
take a sort of mental barometrical reading of 
the prevailing atmosphere ? I should say that 
the atmosphere in this theatre, at this moment, 
threatens storm.’ 

‘ How do you make that out ? * 

‘ I don’t know. Partly, I suppose, by instinct, 
and in part by practice. Somehow, directly I 
enter a court of law I can make a shrewd 
guess as to the temper of the judge and of 
the jury — even of the spectators ; and that, in 
cases where I myself am not engaged. I have 
won more than one bet by forecasting the 
decision in cases of which I knew nothing 
— such forecast being based on what I call 
instinct. I’ll bet you that the glass in the 
house to-night points to stormy.’ 

‘ I don’t believe in your instinct, but I 
do in your perception. Tell me how you see 
it.’ 

‘By something in the people’s faces — in their 
tone — in the air. There’s mischief brewing.’ 

What have you heard ? * 


IN FRONT 


20 ^ 

* Nothing/ 

* I won’t take your bet, because I believe you’re 
right.’ 

‘ What have you heard ? ’ 

‘ For one thing, I’ve read the play. Philip 
Basing sent it me for my opinion. Philip Basing’s 
an ass.’ 

‘ Nothing in it? ’ 

‘ There were thirty thousand words in it. I 
should say more. I hear he’s cut it down. We 
will hope so. Philip Basing thinks himself a 
genius. No man is worth anything till he thinks 
himself a fool.’ 

‘ I have a theory that no man’s worth anything 
till he’s been to jail ; it chastens him.’ 

‘ Have you been there ? ’ 

4 We’ll go together ; and make notes on each 
other’s progress.’ 

‘Thanks. His brother found him the money. 
Brother told me so himself. “ I’m going to give 
him the chance to make a first-class idiot of 
himself. When he’s done that to his entire 
satisfaction, he’ll have to emigrate.” That’s what 
his brother said. Brother thinks him a greater 
fool even than he is.’ 

‘ Brothers do.’ 

‘ Then Polhurston found him some money. 


208 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


There’s a story about that which I don’t know. 
I should like to. I smell copy.’ 

* And I smell libel. Polhurston’s a respectable 
man, and a client of mine. Take my advice, 
smell copy somewhere else.’ 

‘ Thanks. Then there have been ructions at 
rehearsal. Riots royal. Agnes Graham threw 
up her part. There she is in that box there. 
I don’t quite fancy that box was a compliment 
from the management.’ 

‘ She looks old/ 

1 And nasty. She’s more of both than is nice. 
Her prayers won’t waft Philip Basing into the 
sunshine. That’s Harley at her side. He with- 
drew from stage managing " A Legend of the 
Rhine ” when she refused to act in it. If you 
hear the bird, you keep your eye on him. He’s 
waving his hand to me, dash his impudence. 
He’d hiss his mother. There’s one dark horse in 
Basing’s stable.’ 

‘ What’s that ? ' 

‘ His new actress. What do you know of Ada 
Vernham ? ’ 

‘ Nothing.’ 

* When you say that you know nothing about 
a thing, I ask myself how much you really do 


IN FRONT 


209 

know. Why don’t you find some other word 
with which to conceal your knowledge?’ 

* I say that I know nothing of Ada Vernham 
because I do know nothing.’ 

‘Then I should like to find somebody who 
does know something ! If the play is to be 
made, she’ll have to do the making. I fancy 
it’s beyond her marring. Poor devil ! I wonder 
if she’s nervous. Would you like to go round 
and see?’ 

‘ We shall soon see if we stop where we are.’ 

‘ I suppose we shall. Considering these things 
at which I have been hinting, I don’t think that 
it requires a superhuman intellect to perceive 
that there are threatenings of storm — do you ? ’ 

Further down the same row three ladies seated 
beside each other were exchanging confidences. 

‘ My dear, Mr Basing simply raves about her. 
The other day at Mrs Macwhicter’s he talked 
of nothing else — and you know how he does 
talk ! It was too ridiculous. According to 
him, she’s the most sublimely beautiful creature 
the world has ever seen. I think that sort of 
thing is a mistake.’ 

‘ Can she act ? ’ 

‘ I don’t know — but I rather fancy that she 
can’t ; he was so very emphatic about her beauty 

O 


210 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


I generally find that when a man raves about 
what he calls a woman’s beauty, that’s all she 
has.’ 

‘And sometimes she hasn’t that.’ 

‘Just so — and sometimes she hasn’t that. Very 
often indeed.’ 

‘ Who’s dressing her ? ’ 

‘That I don’t know either — for all I know Mr 
Basing may think that she can afford to go 
undressed.’ 

The third woman interposed. 

‘ If she were to appear as Phryne, her fortune 
would be made — and the play’s. You would 
find, in a case like that, that the taste of the 
town would run in the direction of a reversion 
to nature.’ 

‘ My dear ! — S-sh ! ’ She lowered her voice. 
‘That man behind you is listening with all his 
ears.’ She continued to whisper. ‘ I am told — 
mind you, I don’t know, but I’m told — that he 
discovered her during uncanonical hours in 
Piccadilly.’ 

‘ I shouldn’t be surprised — is he a married 
man ? ’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘That makes it all the likelier. What sort of 
woman is his wife?’ 


IN FRONT 


21 1 

‘ My dear, I haven’t the faintest notion. I 
believe he’s married. He says he is, or some- 
body says he is ; but, somehow, one never does 
seem to know these sort of people’s wives.’ 

‘ One becomes acquainted with their discoveries 
instead. Just so.’ 

‘For my part, I am nearly convinced that I 
shan’t like her — I seem to have heard too much 
about her in advance.’ 

‘ I assure you I’m quite prepared to dislike 
her without hearing anything at all about her 
in advance. I have an open mind ; I am always 
ready to dislike any one, at sight. My objection 
is to Philip Basing. I once gave him a chance 
of making love to me ; he didn’t take it : I object 
to that kind of creature.’ 

‘ My dear ! — S-sh ! The man behind is 
listening.’ 

‘ Let him listen. Of course, the same ob- 
jection doesn’t apply to you ; I don’t suppose 
that any one ever made love to you in your 
life.’ 

The lady thus libelled, sighed. 

‘Perhaps, my dear, it is because Mr Basing 
has made love to me that I feel a little pre- 
judiced. My principles are high.’ 

‘ Principles and conduct don’t always go 


212 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


together. I’m not saying that the man who re- 
lieved himself of that truism was thinking of you.’ 

‘But when you have neither principles nor 
conduct — my dear, what then?’ 

In the box pointed out by Mr Lascelles, Miss 
Graham’s and Mr Harley’s tete-a-tete was in- 
terrupted by the entrance of a long man with 
an eye-glass — Brudennel Sharpe — no one quite 
knows who he is, or what. 

‘ 1 didn’t expect to see you here. Com- 
plimentary list?’ 

‘I daresay Philip Basing didn’t expect to see 
us either. No, we’re not on the complimentary 
list, I assure you. We paid for our box, didn’t 
we, Mr Harley ? ’ 

‘ Rather — planked down the spondulicks like 
millionaires. I wouldn’t have missed to-night 
for a hundred pounds. We expect to get value 
for our money, sir.’ 

‘Ah! You don’t think much of the piece.’ 

‘Think of it? I don’t think anything of it at 
all — nor will you, when you’ve seen it. Unless 
it has been rewritten since I had anything to do 
with it — which I doubt — it will be the blankest 
frost ever you saw.’ 

‘Ah. Do you know, if I had been Basing, 
I think I should have kept you out.’ 


IN FRONT 


213 


4 Oh ! How was he going to keep me out ? 
I’ve paid for my seat, and I’m entitled to sit 
in it. I’d want some keeping out, you take 
my tip.’ 

‘Still, I think, if I’d been Basing, I’d have 
kept you out.’ 

The lady spoke sweetly. 

‘ Does that remark, Mr Sharpe, also apply 
to me?’ 

‘ My dear Miss Graham ! Everyone knows 
that you have come to associate yourself with 
the triumph of a sister actress/ 

‘ How acutely you gauge the true inwardness 
of a situation, Mr Sharpe, and how prettily 
you define it. May I ask if you are a friend of 
Miss Vernham?’ 

‘ I hope, my dear Miss Graham, that 1 am 
the friend of every friendless woman who is 
making her London d£but before a hostile 
audience/ 

‘Your sentiments do you honour. Do you 
suspect me of hostility?’ 

‘ Is it possible ? ’ 

‘Although Miss Vernham has used me very 
badly, I trust that I shall never yield to the 
temptation to return her ill usage in kind. In- 
deed, no one will be more delighted than 


214 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


myself if she achieves success ; or more sur- 
prised.’ 

Mr Harley laughed, a little loudly. 

‘ Or more surprised ! ’ he cried. ‘ That’s neat.’ 

When Mr Sharpe had gone, Mr Harley turned 
to the lady. 

‘ I wonder who sent him here.’ 

‘ He merely came to give us a hint that the 
eye of the house is on us ; it’s just as well that 
you should bear his hint in mind. I trust you 
mean to behave.’ 

Her companion grinned. 

‘ I’ll behave all right. Unless I’m wrong, the 
mere sight of my face’ll be enough to drive the 
Vernham silly. No one can have the least objec- 
tion to my leaning a trifle forward.’ 

A red-faced man came bustling in. 

‘ I say, here’s a lark ! Look in the pit — don’t 
seem to take too much notice ! In the middle 
of the third row there’s a man with his hat 
bashed in.’ 

The lady and gentleman both did as he 
directed, the lady more discreetly than the gentle- 
man. 

‘ Which one do you mean ? ’ 

‘ Do you mean the fellow with his coat buttoned 
up to his chin.’ 


IN FRONT 


215 


The first question was from the gentleman ; the 
second from the lady. 

* That’s him.’ 

‘ I see him. Well, what of him ? * 

‘ That man’s mad, raving — fact ! ’ 

‘No!’ 

I’ll tell you who he is. Do you remember 
Lucian Mabbett?’ 

‘ Mabbett ? I seem to remember the name. 
Wasn’t he chucked from the Frivolity? Thirst, 
hasn’t he?’ 

‘ Thirst ! I should think he has ! Chronic 
drought’s more about the size of it. That man’s 
got delirium tremens at this very moment. He’ll 
let ’em know it, too, before the evening’s out. 
I’ll tell you something else — this is in confidence.’ 
The three heads came together. ‘ He’s Vernham’s 
husband.” 

‘No!’ 

The negative came simultaneously from both 
his listeners. 

‘ He is absolutely ! She’s left him. He only 
found out by accident that she was here. He’s 
mad as a hatter. He’s going to make things 
hum before he’s through with her, you see ! ’ 
The red-faced man rubbed his hands together. 
‘ You never enjoyed yourselves so much in all 


216 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


your lives as you’re going to do to-night, my 
little dears.’ 

The gallery was not overcrowded. In it an 
individual was sitting by himself alone in a 
corner. A sociable being occupying a better 
seat towards the centre, called out to him — 

‘ Can you see over there ? Not much, I 
should think. Why don’t you come over here? 
You can see first class, and hear too. There’s 
plenty of room.’ 

The solitary individual bowed, and remained 
where he was. The sociable being’s companion 
whispered in his ear — 

‘ It’s a blooming priest or something, Sam. 
’Eaven ’elp us, don’t entice 'im to come and sit 
alongside of us.’ 

The ‘ blooming priest or something ’ was Gilbert 
Ellerslie. 


CHAPTER XIX 


BEHIND 

On her arrival at the theatre, Ada Vernham 
was met at the stage door by Philip Basing. 

* ‘ So you’ve come.’ 

‘ Am I late ? ’ 

‘ Late ! ’ He laughed vacuously. ‘ I don’t know 
about late, you’re the first. If the others mean 
to come at all, or not, is more than I can 
say.’ 

‘Surely it is early.’ 

‘You wouldn’t call it early if you’d been 
going through to-day. During the last few 
hours, it seems to me that I have lived a hundred 
years. The time won’t come.’ 

He had been walking beside her towards her 
dressing-room. At the door she turned and 
glanced at him. She thought how strange he 
looked. The death of the baby had affected 


218 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


him, outwardly, more than it had done his 
wife. He had cried, to her knowledge, all 
through the night ; apparently, also, he had cried 
throughout the day. The rims of his eyes were 
red ; the lids were swollen ; the eyes themselves 
were bloodshot. His cheeks seemed to have 
fallen in, his face was thin and drawn, the 
apparent attenuation being rendered the more 
noticeable by the presence of a flush which was 
neither natural or healthy. There was a tremu- 
lous twitching about his lips. Even his voice 
was changed ; it was shrill, yet husky ; he spoke 
like the man speaks who, having a bad cold, 
is half beside himself with agitation. She felt, 
as she summed him up, that, with a very little, 
his condition would be hysterical. 

‘Do you know, Mr Basing, that you are not 
looking well ? Was it necessary that you should 
come to the theatre?’ 

He broke into feverish vituperation. 

‘ Necessary ! If I hadn’t, nothing would have 
been done — not a thing! They wouldn’t have 
lit the gas, they wouldn’t have opened the doors. 
What does it matter to them? They wouldn’t 
care if the play was ruined. What’s wanted in 
a theatre is a master. I’ve found that out; and 
this theatre has got a master, they shall find 


BEHIND 


219 


that out. I’ve been in and out of the place all 
day, touching them up. I mean to have my 
orders unquestioningly obeyed, and I’ll have no 
skulking. Besides, if I’d stopped away, what do 
you suppose I should have done? Drank? or 
gone clean mad ? Do you think I could have 
sat down quietly at home, with my child lying 
dead in the next room, and waited patiently 
for news ; hoping that all was right ; praying 
that all was going well ; ignorant of what was 
passing from minute to minute ; watching the 
minute-hand of the clock take a hundred years 
to go round once ; listening in the silence for 
the feet of the bringers of tidings ; dreading 
what the tidings, when they came, might be ; 
doubting them when they stared me in the face, 
wanting the corroboration of my own eyes and 
of my own ears, wondering which part of the 
play took with the house, and which went flat ; 
frightening myself with pictures of what might 
be doing ; living alone, there, ten times through 
the playing of the play? Do you think I could 
do that, and keep my senses, and still live? I 
had rather be dead there with my child. You 
don’t know, you don’t understand, what this 
night means to me. It is to give, or to take away, 
for ever, all that to me life has worth living 


220 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


for. And the issue — the issue — ’ he repeated 
his words, stretching out his arms towards her 
with a passionate gesture — ‘ is in your hands ! ’ 

She shrank away. 

‘Don’t say that! You oughtn’t to say that! 
It isn’t fair.’ 

‘Why oughtn’t I to say that. Isn’t it true? 
Isn’t the issue in your hands? Only act to-night 
as you did yesterday, and what shall I not have 
to thank you for ? ’ 

‘ Let me go ; I want to dress.’ 

Noticing something in her tone, he caught 
her by the arm. 

‘ What’s the matter with you ? Aren’t you well ? 
For God’s sake, don’t say that you’re not well.’ 
He leant towards her, peering at her closely, as 
if his sight was defective. ‘Are you nervous? 

‘ Let me,’ — there was a catching in her voice — 
1 go and dress.’ 

She disappeared into the room. He stayed 
outside, remaining motionless for a second or 
two after she had gone, as if he had been 
fastened to the spot. Then, turning unsteadily 
round, he staggered, with his back against the 
wall, his cheeks ashen, his fists clenched, his 
blurred eyes looking into vacancy. The shrill- 
ness had gone out of his voice ; it was only husky ; 


BEHIND 


221 


he spoke as if the phlegm in his throat was 
choking him. 

* She’s going to fail ! My God, she’s going 
to fail ! My God ! ’ 

When Ada Vernham got into her dressing- 
room, she dropped into a chair, and without 
attempting to remove her hat or jacket, sat 
listlessly with her hands lying idly on her lap in 
front of her. Her dominant expression was one 
of physical fatigue ; she seemed tired out and 
out. As if involuntarily, her eyelids closed. On 
the instant she appeared to be asleep. When, 
in a second or two, she opened them, she looked 
about her with the startled air of the person who 
fears to be caught napping. She put up her 
gloved hands to rub her eyes. 

‘ I ought to have had some sleep this after- 
noon. It would have done me good. It must 
be want of sleep which makes me feel so strange. 
It can’t be anything else.’ 

She looked about her, with something of a 
defiant air, as if challenging contradiction. 

Some minutes later, her dresser, on entering 
the room, found her deeply immersed in the study 
of the words of her part. The woman was profuse 
in her apologies. 

‘ I do beg your pardon, miss. I hadn’t no 


222 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


notion you were here. I do hope you’ll excuse 
me if I’ve kept you waiting.’ 

In reply Ada Vernham held out to her the 
scrip. 

‘ Hear me say my opening lines.’ 

The dresser seemed to be a trifle mystified. 

‘ Your opening lines, miss ? ’ 

The actress passed her hand before her eyes. 

‘Yes. I don’t know what’s come to my 
memory to-night. I don’t feel as if I can 
remember them. It seems so silly.’ 

The dresser eyed her shrewdly. She was a 
woman of long and varied experience. She 
diagnosed her complaint more accurately than 
the other supposed ; probably more accurately 
than the actress herself. She recommended a pre- 
scription of her own — the fruits of experience. 

‘You have some stout, miss, or, better still, a 
little drop of best French brandy, neat.’ 

The actress smiled faintly. 

‘ That won’t do my memory good.’ 

‘Oh, won’t it, miss — that’s all you know. I’ll 
go and get you some this very minute ; there’s 
plenty of time for you to dress.’ 

She bustled out, presently re-appearing with a 
bottle of brandy and a glass. Drawing the cork 
with a private corkscrew, pouring some of the 


BEHIND 


22 3 


contents into the glass, she handed it to Ada 
Vernham. 

‘ I can’t drink it like this ; I want some water.’ 

‘Nonsense, miss. You take and swallow it as 
it is ; it’ll do you a world of good ; just do as I 
tell you.’ 

She did as she was told, swallowing the stuff 
with a wry face. The dresser watched the 
results critically ; whether or not she was 
satisfied with them would have been hard to tell. 

‘Now, miss, supposing you begin to dress. 
You’ll be able to take your time, and when 
you’ve finished you’ll have a minute or two to 
rest before you’re called. I like my ladies, 
especially on first nights, not to be flurried when 
they’re going on — don’t you think there’s a 
great deal in not being flurried?’ 

Miss Vernham was still studying her part. 
She answered at random. 

‘ I suppose there is. I wish you would just 
hear me say those opening lines.’ 

As the woman talked and dressed her, there 
came a tapping at the door. Already some 
distance advanced towards Elsa, she was in a 
condition of undress in which, what the dresser 
called her ‘figure,’ was distinctly obvious. 

‘ Who’s there ? ’ cried the dresser. 


224 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


‘ Is Miss Vernham visible ?* 

The voice was Mr Tullett’s. The lady replied. 

‘ Is it anything important ? * Then without 
waiting for an answer. ‘ One moment ! ’ Throw- 
ing some loose flowing feminine garment about 
her, she went to the door. ‘What is it?’ 

The gentleman himself was shrouded in a 
dressing-gown. He looked at her curiously, as 
if, expecting to see something which he did not 
see, he was surprised at its absence. 

‘ I beg your pardon. I am exceedingly sorry 
to have disturbed you, but Basing has been 
going on in such a style that he has made me 
feel quite troubled. You don’t look as if there 
was anything the matter with you — is there?’ 

‘ Not that I am aware of. Why do you ask ? ’ 

‘ I really think Basing must be raving. I 
hope he hasn’t been upsetting you ; he has me. 
You have more influence over him than any of 
us — couldn’t you induce him to go home?’ 

‘ I am afraid not — he is very anxious ; it’s 
only natural.’ 

‘ Pardon me, but his anxiety appears to me 
to be a bit unnatural. If he is not careful he him- 
self will bring about the very result he is so 
anxious to avert. He doesn’t seem to me to be 
quite sane/ 


BEHIND 


22s 


Mr Tullett repeated his assertion, as he en- 
countered Mr Rayment, on leaving Miss 
Vernham’s room. 

‘ Do you know I am seriously disposed to 
think that Basing must have lunatic moments, — 
he has just induced me to make a fool of myself 
in one of them. He has been declaring to me 
so strenuously that Miss Vernham is going to 
be a failure ; that he saw it, as she entered 
the theatre, in her face, and in her eyes, and I 
don’t know what ; and that, because of her, 
the play was damned before the curtain rose, 
that he gave me the fidgets. So I’ve been 
to see what ails her. That’s nothing at all — 
it’s an hallucination of Basing’s. She’s perhaps 
a trifle nervous, but, on my word, no more than 
I am.’ 

Rayment’s manner was sententious. 

‘ Still, she is going to be a failure.’ 

‘ How do you know, you bird of evil omen ? ’ 

‘ I do know. It’s been revealed to me, perhaps, 
in a dream. For the rest of us, it’s going to be 
a question of sauve qui pent. She is going to 
make a record in the way of failures. Wait ; 
you will see. My instinct, unlike yours, warns 
me of what is coming.’ 

‘ Oh, damn your instinct ! ’ 

P 


226 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


John Tullet strode off angrily, leaving his 
colleague, if he chose, to follow at his leisure. 

When the call came for Miss Vernham, as 
she opened the door of her dressing-room, she 
gave an exclamation half of surprise, half of 
dismay. A woman was standing outside, lean- 
ing against the door, so that when, unexpected 
by the woman without, it was opened, she all 
but fell into the actress’ arms. 

‘ Mrs Basing ! what has brought you here? * 

Mrs Basing looked behind her, and on her 
either side, with something fearful in her action 
which was, in its way, uncanny. She spoke in 
a whisper, there being that in her tone and in 
her manner which oddly recalled a child. 

‘ Baby told me I might come.’ 

‘ Baby ? ’ Then she remembered that the child 
was dead. * Mrs Basing ! you are dreaming.’ 

If the woman had been dreaming, then she 
was dreaming still. 

The actress and her dresser looked at each 
other ; then at the little woman. This was a 
sort of visitor for which neither was prepared. 

‘ Should Mrs Cutler, the dresser, see that 
someone takes you round to the front? I’ve 
been called — I’m afraid they’re waiting for me 
ot begin.’ 


BEHIND 


227 


Mrs Basing shook her head. 

‘ I don’t want to go in the front, among the 
people ; I’m not dressed, you see. J want 
you to take me somewhere, at the side of 
the stage, where, although I shall be hidden, 
I can see the whole of Philip’s play.’ 

Someone came hurrying towards them. It 
was Philip Basing, distraught with excitement. 

‘ Miss Vernham, do you know that the 
stage is waiting?’ 

The actress motioned towards the woman 
under the rug. 

* Here is Mrs Basing.’ 

The wife turned to her husband, quite simply. 

‘Yes, Philip — baby sent me.’ 

‘Baby?’ He stared at her with, apparently, 
an entire lack of comprehension. ‘Oh!’ 

‘ I don’t want to go among the people. I 
want you to put me somewhere by the stage, 
where no one can see me, but where I can 
see your play.’ Putting her hands outside the 
rug, going to him, placing them upon his 
shoulders, she looked him in the face with 
steadfast eyes, speaking with seeming uncon- 
sciousness of the fact that there were listeners. 

‘ Do you remember how often you’ve read 
to me your play, and how I’ve loved to 


228 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


listen, until I’ve got it nearly all by heart? 
—I believe that I could play the part of 
prompter. And how we’ve asked ourselves 
if it ever would come out, and wondered if 
you would ever get the money to bring it out 
yourself. This is going to be a great night 
for us, my dear.* 

‘Yes.’ The voice in which he echoed her 

words was hoarse and indistinct. ‘ A great 
night.’ 

‘ The night of which we have so long 
dreamed, the night on which all our 
troubles are to be as if they had never been 
— on which, as you have so often told me, 

we are to step for ever out of the shadows 
into the light of the sun, into the bright light 
of the sun. You see, it has come at last 
— the hour of your triumph, dear. Haven’t 

I told you that when a man hopes, and 
prays, and waits, and watches, and works as 
you have done, God always comes to him at 
last ? And to-night, you see, dear, God has 

come.’ 

‘Miss Vernham,’ shouted someone, with 
stentorian lungs. 

And, as the wife clung to her husband, 
the actress went on to the stage. 


CHAPTER XX 


ACT ONE 

The spectators were growing fidgety ; a fact 
which, as is the wont of a London first night 
audience, they were at no pains to conceal. 
The orchestra had been tardy in putting in 
an appearance ; tardier in getting to work ; 
tardiest, as it seemed, in leaving off. These 
things a section of the house resented. So 
that when, at last, the curtain did ascend, it 
was to an accompaniment of discordant sounds 
which were hardly of a sort to give encourage- 
ment to those of the players who were most 
in need of it. 

A wrong note had been struck, a serious 
matter to those who were principally con- 
cerned in giving a new play unto the world. 
As the stage was revealed, a voice shouted 
from the gallery: — 


230 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


‘We thought you weren’t a-coming!* 

Although there were murmurs of ‘ Hush/ 
there was also laughter. 

The scene portrayed the interior of an inn 
on the banks of the Rhine, according to the 
programme, ‘ In the Days of Chivalry.’ Un- 
fortunately, the grouping, and the costumes, 
of the characters, lent some point to the out- 
spoken comment of a second-god. 

* Looks like the beginning of a comic opera. 
Ain’t you going to give us a chorus ? ’ 

This time, however, the cries of * Silence ! ’ were 
masterful. The house settled down to attention. 

It is possible that the small interchange of 
compliments had been to Ada Vernham as the 
last straw on the camel’s back. She had come 
straight, as it were, from the presence of the dead ; 
borne down by the thousand and one respon- 
sibilities which had been placed upon her ; 
physically unfitted to bear any further strain, 
to find herself in front of an angry audience, 
with sounds of insult ringing in her ears. 

It was the one touch which was needed to 
snap the string. 

She looked as if she had been walking in her 
sleep, and had been suddenly aroused to find 
herself she knew not where. The opening sen- 


ACT ONE 


231 


tences were spoken by others ; and as they spoke 
them, she looked about her, as if stupefied, amazed, 
wondering what it all might mean. 

Although she took no actual part, for the 
moment, in the business of the scene, hers were 
the face and form on which the eyes of the house 
were rivetted. Their very incongruity fascinated. 
Here was a woman of commanding presence, 
whose extraordinary physical beauty was even 
emphasised by the disorder of her mind, standing 
in that little group of mummers who were engaged 
in the mimic traffic of the stage, with that in her 
bearing which suggested that she had come so 
lately from the land of dreams that she had not 
yet been able to realise that she had passed from 
the presence of the ghosts. If this was acting, 
then here was an actress born indeed. 

The people looked at her and wondered. 

It was her father’s inn. Two suitors disputed 
for her hand. She in the background, was sup- 
posed to feign indifference, while she busied 
herself in the offices of hospitality for her father’s 
guests ; instead of which she stood there motion- 
less, as if seeking for egress from the webs of 
fantasy. At last one of the disputants, John Tullett, 
appealed to her. It was her part to answer him. 
She looked at him, askance, then back again in 


232 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


front of her. The people wondered the more. 
Was she acting still? John Tullett, very well 
knowing that she was not, whispered something 
which only reached her ear. She, glancing at 
him, catching the meaning of his words, put her 
hand up to her brow, struggling to gain possession 
of her waking senses. Then the real position 
breaking on her dimly, she turned to him, and 
with the most commonplace air in the world, ad- 
dressed him in the words of her part. 

It was a bit of the most unconscious comedy ; 
which part of the audience, dead to the tragedy 
lying behind it, greeted with a laugh. The 
laughter seemed to assist her rousing. They 
saw she started. Then, casting startled glances 
on either side of her, as a person is apt to do who 
is suddenly disturbed from slumber, there came 
on her face an expression of fear, and of horror. 
She knew what she had done, she knew that 
she had marred the first moments of Philip 
Basing’s play. John Tullett again had given her 
her cue. More emphatically than before he en- 
deavoured to recall her to a sense of the situation. 
With conscience-stricken, frightened looks, which 
were altogether out of place at the moment, 
in the heroine of the dramatist’s intention, she 
repeated, parrot fashion, the required lines. There 


ACT ONE 


233 


was another ripple of laughter from the front. 
Others of her auditors examined her curiously 
through their opera glasses, seeking by their aid 
to discover what it was that ailed the woman. 
Plainer still, in the light of their looks, and of 
their laughter, she perceived the precipice by 
which she was standing, and over the edge of 
which she was threatening to precipitate not only 
herself, but others. The consciousness of the 
trust which had been confided to her, and which 
she was so ignominiously betraying, came dash- 
ing over her, sweeping all barriers away. She 
braced herself against the shock, it did her good. 
And in an instant, the house was made cognisant 
of the fact, that this woman was an actress after 
all. 

The next few moments went as briskly as the 
preceding ones had dragged. She woke to an ap- 
preciation of the cut-and-thrust play which was 
supposed to take place between herself and her 
two lovers. She lifted by the aid of that strange 
magic, which is the indisputable possession of the 
actor or actress born, the play out of the rut into 
which already it had bade fair to sink. The other 
players woke by her awaking, rising to her level, 
joined her in the game. Where before there was 
inanity, was life ; where dullness, there was sparkle. 


234 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


The house, at first taken by surprise, began 
presently to answer to her touch, as a fiddle to 
a master’s. Plaudits began to punctuate her 
every utterance. There came into the theatre 
that atmosphere of alertness and of buoyancy 
which those who earn in the theatre the right to 
live, are so ready to appreciate. A change had 
come o’er the spirit of the scene, bringing with 
it the winds wafting to success. 

If the actress had sustained the level to which 
she seemed to have so easily attained, the 
halcyon harbour might have been gained in 
one clean steering. But, if the audience had 
only known it, that would have been to require 
too much from human nature. If you ask too 
much from your finest thoroughbred, it cracks. 
This woman, in a sense, was thoroughbred ; 
but, also, she was human. When the play was 
going best, in the middle of a speech, to which 
the house was listening with wide, open, and 
delighted ears, she stopped, and, to the surprise 
of everyone, even to the awe of some, there 
came back to her face that look which had been 
on it at first — as if she had been standing in the 
presence of ghosts. 

A moment before words were flowing from 
her lips like notes of music. Now, without any 


ACT ONE 


235 


sort of warning, she stood mute, motionless, her 
hands dangling loosely at her sides, in her eyes 
that strained, vacant look which is seen in a 
sonambulist’s. The practised players by whom 
she was surrounded, had they only had the 
faintest notion of what was coming, might have 
covered her slips by those arts with which they 
were familiar. But they, like the audience, were 
taken unawares. Before they realised what had 
happened, it already was too late to conceal the 
fact that she had broken down. 

‘ Is the woman ill? or is it funk?* 

The inquiry came from some one in the 
pit. It was followed by the usual senseless 
laughter. 

Then ensued a second or two of painful ten- 
sion, during which the sympathies of nearly every 
creature in the building went out to the woman 
whom they saw was battling with something which, 
perhaps, they were dimly conscious was beyond 
their comprehension. When it almost seemed as 
if the play would collapse there and then, and the 
voice of the prompter was the only sound which 
broke that stillness which, in a theatre, occasion- 
ally precedes a storm, John Tullett, standing 
at her elbow, urged her to make still another 
effort to be herself again. Turning, looking at 


236 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


him, as if she were making a convulsive attempt 
to remember who he was, slowly, as they watched 
her, she came back from that uncomfortable 
land, on the borders of which she seemed to be 
continually treading. Taking up the cue which 
the prompter gave her, she completed her 
speech. But she was not what she had been 
before. 

People first stared, then smiled, then gaped. 
The silence was portentous — it was not that 
silence which denotes attention ; it was that 
silence which, when one finds it in the midst 
of a crowd, suggests the would-be dead. 

4 Speak up ! ’ cried some one in the pit. 

But as the cry was but a languid one, and no 
one seconded, and every one, indeed, seemed 
already to be hearing about as much as they 
cared to hear, the appeal passed unheeded by 
those upon the stage. They went droning on. 
The act dragged slowly to its close. When 
the curtain fell, there was hardly a hand — scarcely 
even a hiss. 

The enthusiastic acclamations which, in fancy, 
Philip Basing had so often heard, proceeding 
from a crowded theatre, wrought to a pitch of 
frenzy by the first-fruits of his genius, proved 
to have been but the mocking mirage of his 


ACT ONE 


237 


brain. He had more than once discussed with 
his wife as to whether, if he was called after 
the first act, he would accept the call. The 
question had been left open. It was closed for 
ever then. 

His heart was filled with the unreasoning 
madness of a wild despair, as, encircling his wife 
with his arms, he stood, watching the destruction 
of his hopes, and told himself that the blame was 
on the shoulders of the woman whom he had 
picked out of the ditch. 

Curse her! Again and again! 


CHAPTER XXI 


BETWEEN THE ACTS 

WHEN the drop had fallen, the players remained 
on the stage for some moments in attitudes 
of expectancy. They seemed to find the still- 
ness which prevailed surprising; glancing into 
each other’s faces with looks of something more 
than wonder. 

‘No one called.’ 

As he uttered the words, which, under such 
circumstances, are tantamount to a confession of 
failure, Rayment grinned. 

‘Called!’ 

John Tullett shrugged his shoulders ; he spoke 
with a bitterness which in him was unusual. As 
if not altogether of their own volition, they 
turned, and with one accord, looked at the 
woman who was in their midst. She leaned 
against a rough trestle table, which had been 


BETWEEN THE ACTS 


239 


used as furniture of the inn, with one hand clutch- 
ing its edge, the other pressed against her side. 
She seemed to be in pain. Her whole bearing 
was expressive of agony, physical and mental. 
So obvious was her humiliation and her shame, 
that her own perception of her degradation 
seemed to keep them dumb. None spoke to 
her. They only looked. Until Philip Basing 
came striding on to the stage. 

In appearance he was even more a travesty of 
himself than she was. That odd tendency of 
his attire to sympathise with the disorder of his 
mind was unpleasantly in evidence. The starch 
seemed to have gone out of his linen. His 
front was creased ; his collar limp ; his cuffs 
were soiled ; his necktie half undone. His coat 
had got so out of its place, it seemed ill-fitting 
and old ; on his trousers were stains of dirt and 
of dust ; they bagged at the knees. His hair 
was unkempt. His face, which was wont to be 
so sanguine, so handsome, and so young, was 
hopeless, ugly, old, haggard ; it was the face of 
the man who has just heard sentence of death 
pronounced against him, and who rages franti- 
cally, helplessly against the pronouncement. 

He came within a foot or two of where Ada 
Vernham was standing. A little behind him, 


240 ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

still enveloped in her rug, was his wife. The 
quality of huskiness, which, in his voice, had 
taken the place of his usual ringing tones, seemed 
to italicise his desire to sear her with his words — 
since he was denied the use of other weapons — 
as if they had been brands of red-hot iron. 

‘ I thank you, from my heart I thank you. 
You have done to-night for me much more 
than I ever ventured to anticipate. Listen to 
the tumult of their shouts ! ’ 

He threw out his hands in front of him. 
Seemingly unconscious of his irony, she lifted 
her head, as if to listen. 

Although incapable of gauging the precise 
meaning of what he said, she yet seemed to get 
a glimpse at his intention and it hurt her. She 
put her hand up to her head as if confused, and 
stammered in her speech. 

‘You — you are very good to me. I — I’m not 
feeling very well.’ 

‘ I am good to you ? Indeed ! And you really 
are not feeling well? Bad health comes just in 
time to help you to ruin me. What a convenient 
constitution yours must be. Is that the only 
assistance you have had in the spoiling of my 
play ? * 

She looked about her with anxious troubled 


BETWEEN THE ACTS 


241 


eyes, as if seeking for assistance against this 
man’s continuous flow of words. 

* I forgot my part.’ 

‘You forgot your part? Indeed? How strange! 
But yesterday you had it by heart, quite pat. 
You boasted to me that you were letter perfect. 
Did you wait till to-night then to discover that 
you weren’t ? How very odd ! * 

She was holding her hands in front of her, and 
was twisting them together. 

‘ I — I am very sorry.’ 

‘No? It can’t be? You are sorry? Sorry 
that you’ve blasted my career, destroyed utterly 
all the hopes I’ve cherished ; turned the work of 
years into a thing of nought and worse than 
nought, made of me a ruined and a broken man ? 
Because of this you’re sorry? But why should 
you be sorry? You’ve been fed and clothed; 
after all, you’re but going back into the gutter 
from whence you came. Me, you have cast 
from heaven to hell, but you — I would venture, 
inviting if I err, your kind correction, to hazard 
the opinion, from what I have seen of you, and 
heard, Miss Vernham, that you’ve been on the 
pavement half your time.’ 

John Tullett interposed. 

‘Excuse me, Basing, but I fail to see what 

Q 


242 ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

good purpose is to be served by the sort of 
language you are using. You are hardly adopt- 
ing the best means of giving the lady courage. 
And I would remind you that the play is not yet 
finished.’ 

‘Not finished! Tullett! You surprise me! 
I was of opinion that the play was finished.’ 

The actor shrugged his shoulders. 

‘ I am not disposed to quarrel with your 
opinion. But I take it that you would wish the 
second and third acts to be played.’ 

‘ Played ? By whom ? Miss Vernham ? Do 
you imagine then, that she has played the 
first?’ 

‘ I am not the lady’s sponsor. Miss Vernham 
was engaged by you, sir, not by me. But, I 
take leave to say that, the lady being plainly 
ill, you can scarcely expect that reproaches will 
make her better.’ He turned to the woman, 
who still was twisting her hands in front of her. 
‘ I fear that it is something more than nervous- 
ness which ails you.’ 

She looked at him, vacantly, as if she were 
not certain that he spoke to her. She placed 
her hand before her eyes. 

‘I’m such a coward — such a coward.’ 


BETWEEN THE ACTS 


243 


‘Permit me to offer you my arm to conduct 
you to your dressing-room.’ 

She allowed him to place her arm through 
his, passively, as if she was not conscious o 
what it was he did. With the same unnatura 
passivity, she moved beside him when he 
moved. So they went across the stage ; Basing 
glaring at her as if she was too contemptible 
a thing even to insult. There were some who 
sniggered ; not one who spoke to her a kindly 
word ; nor, indeed, a word of any sort. She 
had smirched them too completely with the 
grime of her own disaster. Itching with the 
sense of the fiasco they had shared, in their 
hearts they made of her a scapegoat ; as Basing 
did, they laid all the fault on her. For very little, 
they would have covered her with the eloquence 
of their opprobrium. 

John Tullet did not relinquish her arm till, 
in her dressing-room, he had seated her upon 
a chair. His manner was an obvious attempt 
to unite severity with gentleness. 

‘ Come, Miss Vernham, this behaviour of yours 
will never do. As the boys say : “ Buck up ! ” 
Tell me, what is wrong?’ 

‘ I’m afraid ! ’ 

‘Afraid? Of what?’ 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


244 

‘ Of the people, of the lights, of everything 
—of my part! It’s too big a part for me.’ 

* Pardon me, but is this not rather an untoward 
hour to find that out?’ 

‘I found it out before — I knew it all along 
— I begged him not to give it to me — it was 
his choice, not mine. I told him I never could 
play Elsa — he said I must — I can’t! I can’t! 
Oh, suppose I should break down ! * 

‘ Suppose.’ 

He smiled, grimly. It seemed that she did 
not realise the extent to which she had broken 
down already. 

* It will mean so much to him — and to Mrs 
Basing — and she believes in me so much — she 
has been so good to me — she is the only woman 
that ever has — and her baby died last night 
— her little child ! If I were to break down, 
the play would be a failure, and they’d be 
ruined, ruined ! And they have been so good 
to me — so good. I can’t play Elsa, I won’t 
— I daren’t.’ 

She began to move tempestuously about the 
diminutive apartment, Tullet watching her with 
scrutinous eyes. 

‘Your words and your actions are at variance. 
If you felt all that you say you do, you would 


BETWEEN THE ACTS 


245 


make some effort at self-control. You would 
not work yourself into a state of nervous irre- 
sponsibility, as you have done, and as you are 
still doing.’ 

She came to him with what, under the cir- 
cumstances, was a queer inquiry. 

* Do you think I might go home ? ’ 

* Go home ! ’ He stared at her aghast. ‘ My 
dear child, I doubt if the interval has not 
already overstepped the usual limits ; in a 
minute or two they’ll be wanting you again 
upon the stage. Come, Mrs Cutler.’ The 
dresser was standing speechless at the side ; she 
was habituated to the tantrums of the ladies of 
the theatres, but there was something about this 
one which surpassed her comprehension. ‘ Haven’t 
you anything to give Miss Vernham to brace 
her up? What’s in that bottle there? — brandy? 
— the very thing ! — Come, my child, drink this.’ 

She shook her head. -Her thoughts were with 
what he had just been Saying. Her words were 
whispered. 

‘ I can’t go back upon the stage — not again. 
I can’t — I daren’t — I’d rather die.’ 

Without another word he moved to the door. 
It opened to admit Mrs Basing. He bowed. 

‘ I was about to seek your husband — to convey 


246 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


to him Miss Vernham’s decision to withdraw 
from “A Legend of the Rhine” You, however, 
will acquit yourself of that task more capably 
than I.’ 

He went out of the room. Mrs Basing was 
left confronting Ada Vernham. 

‘What does he mean?’ The question seemed 
to paralyse the actress ; to tie her tongue with 
fear. She shrunk away. Mrs Basing went after 
her with a repetition of her inquiry. ‘ What does 
he mean?’ 

‘ I — I can’t act Elsa/ 

Like some hunted animal, Ada Vernham 
looked from side to side of her, as if seeking 
for a way of escape. Explanation, it sqppned, 
she had none to offer. Mrs Basing turned to 
the dresser. 

‘ Is Miss Vernham ready for the stage?’ 

‘She has to change her dress for the second 
act I’ve been waiting for her to do it ever 
since she came.’ 

‘Then let her change her dress at once.’ 

Ada Vernham offered neither remonstrance 
nor resistance. She surrendered herself to Mrs 
Cutler’s ministrations with the docility of a 
frightened child. Mrs Basing supervised the 
proceedings like some stern governess — noting, 


BETWEEN THE ACTS 247 

and remarking, on the charms of person which 
the process of disrobing revealed. 

‘You are very beautiful. Have I been mis- 
taken in thinking you were good?’ 

The other was still. It was singular in what 
awe the larger woman seemed to stand of the 
smaller. From time to time Mrs Basing gave 
utterance to observations which, at first, were 
rather of the nature of ejaculatory commands. 

‘You are to act — you hear — you can act; and 
you must — you can act Elsa as well as any one 
in the world ; and you shall — you saw my baby 
die last night ; do you wish to see me die to- 
night? If you kill Philip’s play, you kill us 
both. Are you a woman, that you would have 
that on your soul? What have we done to you 
that you should do this thing to us? — I would 
rather you should take me, and kill me, where 
I stand now, than that you should kill Philip’s 
play. You know that well — so choose.’ 

The other answered never a word. The voice 
of the call boy was heard without. Mrs Basing 
bade the dresser hasten. Ada Vernham, as if 
driven to desperation by the imminence of the 
approaching danger, made a tremulous appeal 
to the other’s charity. 

<You — you must forgive me, Mrs Basing. I 


248 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


— I know what a disappointment it will be to 
you, what a bitter disappointment, and I — I am 
so sorry, but I — I cannot act any more — I can’t ! 
— I — I am not very well — I’m not fit to act — 
you must forgive me.’ 

Her agitation caused her speech to be con- 
fused. Mrs Basing showed no signs of being 
moved ; she was like one who had been frozen 
into stone. 

‘I will forgive you nothing. You must act; 
and you shall.’ 

4 I can’t ! * 

4 1 say you shall.’ 

4 But — I can’t ! ’ 

4 Do you not understand ? — I say that you shall.* 

There was something terrible in the little 
woman’s looks and manner, something scarcely 
human. Like destiny, she was inexorable, 
resistless. Ada Vernham seemed to be cowed 
by the revelation of a side of her character, 
of the existence of which she had hitherto been 
ignorant, into a condition of actual physical 
fear. Someone banged with his knuckles at the 
panel of the door. 

4 Miss Vernham ! * 

Mrs Basing answered. 

4 She will be ready in an instant.* 


BETWEEN THE ACTS 


249 


‘ She’d better, if she doesn’t want to have the 
house brought down about our ears. They’re 
making a pretty riot in front.’ 

Mrs Basing’s voice again replied, clear, hard, 
cold. 

‘ In an instant she will be there.' 

The speaker outside retreated. Ada Vernham 
was submitting herself to her dresser’s hands, as 
if she had been some lifeless automaton which 
Mrs Cutler was attiring. That woman of ex- 
perience, though using her best endeavours in 
the direction of speed, found herself seriously 
hampered by the lady’s inertness ; she might 
have been a helpless paralytic for all the 
assistance which she rendered. 

Mrs Basing volunteered her aid. It still re- 
mained to cover the actress with the simple 
frock, which represented the rustic costume of 
the period. 

‘Let me help you. Lift up your arms.’ This 
was to Miss Vernham, who obeyed as if she 
were a marionette, of which the other pulled the 
strings. ‘ Sit down.’ 

Miss Vernham sat. Despite her inertness, in 
the deft hands of the collaborating operators, her 
attire rapidly approached completion. Neither 
of the trio spoke. By her demeanour, Ada 


250 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


Vernham might have been a criminal whom 
they were preparing for execution ; while Mrs 
Basing might have been the executioner who was 
preparing her. 

‘You are ready. Now go.’ Mrs Basing spoke 
without a trace of passion ; yet with a resolute 
hardness which it was even more difficult to 
combat. The actress looked at her beseechingly. 
In vain. The command was repeated. ‘ Go ! ’ 

Ada Vernham rose from her chair; she went 
out of the room, Mrs Basing following hard at 
her heels. As she neared the stage, there came 
the tumult of the uproarious, impatient, disgusted 
house ; that, fortunately, nowadays, unusual dis- 
cord which, even to the seasoned actor, is a sound 
of terror. 

Philip Basing was standing like a creature 
distraught, with frenzied eyes, and twitching 
lips, at the ‘practicable door’ by which she was 
to enter. He looked at her, as she had never 
thought to have seen him look. 

‘ So you’ve come ! ’ 

She shrunk away from him, only to come into 
contact with his wife in the rear. All at once, 
the tumult in the house redoubled. There were 
yells and cat-calls, stamping of feet, hoots, hisses. 
She glanced from the husband to the wife, from 


BETWEEN THE ACTS 


251 


the wife back to the husband. The paint could 
not conceal the blanching of her cheeks. She 
broke into a whispered agony of supplication, 
repeating her own words, as if unconscious of 
what it was she was saying. 

‘ Ask them to excuse me — ask them to excuse 
me — tell them I’m not well — tell them I’m not well 
— do ! do ! do ! — ask them to excuse me ! ’ 

In return he shouted at her hoarsely. 

* I must ask them to excuse you ! Why should 
I ? I engaged you to act in my play, and you 
shall act in it, to the end. They’re waiting for 
you, go on to the stage!’ 

She went on to the stage. And the curtain 


rose. 


CHAPTER XXII 


ACT TWO 

ROSE on a sort of a miniature pandemonium 
amid a din during which it was impossible for 
anything to have been heard which might have 
been said upon the stage. And, in a way, it 
was almost as well that it was so. For, before 
it was possible for her to make herself audible, 
an appreciable period of time elapsed, during 
which an opportunity was afforded her to get 
the better, if she could, of the extremity of panic 
which possessed her. To an extent she availed 
herself of it. 

Presently, the sense of fair-play, which is never 
altogether absent in an English play-house, came 
to the front. Shouts were raised commanding 
silence. People standing up demanded that the 
noise should be stilled. And by degrees it was. 
She had in front of her a house which was 


ACT TWO 


253 


agog with the expectation of being furnished 
with entertainment of a kind which the manage- 
ment had not proposed to provide. A house 
on the verge of a titter ; of a possible guffaw ; both 
emphatically of the kind which laughs at, not 
with. A house keenly on the alert for the dis- 
covery of trifling slips, which might be magnified 
into mighty disasters. A house ready to jibe, 
to jeer, to mock ; alive only to a sense of the 
grotesque ; prepared to see in everything and 
anything, humour which was not intended. A 
house in an impossible mood for the proper 
consideration of a serious play; in a frame of 
mind in which Hamlet, even adequately pre- 
sented, would have been regarded as a screaming 
farce ; in just that state, in short, of which those 
whose business is in theatres, are ever most 
afraid. 

And, for the amusement of this untoward 
aggregation of — for the most part — malicious 
units, an actress little practised in her art ; 
whose affair it was to snatch, single-handed, a 
play from the waters which already were en- 
gulfing it ; knowing that, on the hazard of the 
play, hung not only the fortunes, and, indeed, 
the existence of those to whose good offices she 
was seriously indebted, but also, so far as she 


254 ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

could tell, the one last chance of her own salva- 
tion. On its success depended, to her, what 
to many women is more, much more, than life. 
If the play went, she went with it, into the 
depths, from whose profound abysses even the 
carcasses do not return. It was a quaint further 
illustration of the old-time adage that what is 
sport to one is death to another. 

There have been actresses, and actors, who 
have snatched ‘ the bubble reputation ’ even 
‘ from the cannon’s mouth ’ ; who have attained 
success just when failure seemed most certain ; 
who have been urged to deeds of derring-do 
by the very imminence of the impending peril. 
These have been exceptions ; veritable heroines 
and heroes of romance of whose existence 
history provides but few sufficient records. 
The woman then upon the stage was scarcely 
of a calibre to be joined unto their noble 
company. 

In short, to be quite frank, she gave an ex- 
hibition of absolute incompetence, — an exhibi- 
tion to which it was an insult to expect a 
cultivated audience to sit still and listen ; an 
exhibition which would have ruined any play, 
and which any dramatist would have been 
justified in resenting. She showed herself 


ACT TWO 


255 


ignorant of the rudiments of the art which 
she profaned. It was a display of all-round 
incapacity, — incapacity to enunciate her words ; 
to make anything of the fine stage presence 
which nature had bestowed on her ; to move 
with grace. She was as unable to realise the 
part with which she had been entrusted as 
the veriest tyro from the Theatre Royal Back 
Drawing-Room. To suppose that about Elsa, 
as she played the role , there was anything of 
a heroine, was absurd ; she was a brainless, 
colourless, invertebrate, half - imbecile nonenity. 
It was a scandal and a shame that a metro- 
politan audience should have been invited to 
assist at such a demonstration of abject unfit- 
ness. Each moment the spectators evinced 
stronger signs of their resentment. 

They were not supposed to know that the 
woman was being torn by mental stress and 
strain to the very verge of madness ; that her 
reason was tottering to its foundations ; that 
she was suffering from exquisite physical pain, 
so that every time she moved, she could have 
screamed ; that a cloud had settled on her 
brain which had reduced her, temporarily, to 
a condition of aphasia ; that there was being 
then enacted before their very eyes the most 


256 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


pitiful tragedy they ever yet had seen, — they 
were not supposed to know these things. And 
they did not know them. All they knew was 
what they saw; feeble drivel — a pale parody 
of acting — a meaningless burlesque. Which 
things they had not come to see. 

Then began as pretty a display of would- 
be actress - baiting as one might reasonably 
desire. They began to mimic her; to ‘guy* 
her, to comment on her every gesture, her every 
word. It was plain that they were beginning 
to find the performance most amusing, in a 
sense which the management had not pro- 
posed. All over the house they laughed and 
chattered, as if the performance on the stage 
had been intended, as is the case with music 
in certain private houses, as a cover for their 
greater conversational freedom. Here and 
there, men and women rose from their seats, 
with varying degrees of ostentation, and quitted 
the house; possibly they had had enough of 
it; possibly they were fearful of what was still 
to come ; possibly they were conscious that, 
in the treatment by the audience of the un- 
fortunate woman on the stage, there was, after 
all, a spice of cruelty. 

Rayment’s entry on the conclusion of Miss 


ACT TWO 


257 


Vernham’s as it seemed, interminable soliloquy, 
was the signal for screams of laughter and 
applause — probably very few of those who 
laughed were aware, from their study of the 
play, why he came, or what it was that he was 
doing there — which made it all the funnier. Mr 
Rayment was not the sort of man to allow him- 
self, if he could help it — and he was a gentleman 
fertile in resource — to be laughed at. He pre- 
ferred to join the laughers — which, seeing that 
they were in a majority, and that it would 
probably be impossible to recall them to an 
attitude of gravity, without any hesitation he 
did do, there and then. Anticipating any dis- 
position on their side to ‘guy’ the part with 
which he had been entrusted, he ‘guyed’ it for 
them — treating as if it had been burlesque what 
the dramatist had intended to be very near to 
tragedy. 

Nothing, in its way, could have been more 
successful. The spectators, acquainted, for the 
most part, with their Rayment, burst out laughing 
as if they would never stop. The guffaws were 
so tremendous, that a faint consciousness of their 
being out of place penetrated even to Miss 
Vernham’s torpid brain. She hesitated, looked 
about her, as if searching for a key to all 


258 ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 

this merriment — and an odd incident took 
place. 

Miss Graham, sitting in her box with Mr 
Harley, was so kindled by her sense of Mr 
Rayment’s exquisite feeling, that, rising from 
her seat, she had to press her hands to her 
shaking sides. She was so doubled up with 
mirth that half her body was projected over the 
edge of the box — and, just at that moment, Miss 
Vernham caught her eye. 

Probably, until that instant, the actress on 
the stage had not been aware of the presence 
of the actress in the box. The revelation came 
upon her like a thunderclap. She stared at the 
woman’s protruded face, distorted by uncontroll- 
able laughter, as if it had been a satyr’s, some 
horrid creature of a horrid dream — and was 
dumbfounded. Literally, she was stricken dumb. 
The sight of her obvious disturbance added fuel 
to the other’s mirth. Miss Graham broke into 
such crescendo cachinnations that her laughter 
threatened to become hysterical. The audience, 
grasping the situation, yelled in chorus. Con- 
fusion became confounded — everywhere people 
were pressing their hands to their sides. 

The action of the play, such as it was, came 
to a standstill. Matters had gone farther than 


ACT TWO 


259 


Mr Rayment had intended. He shouted into 
Miss Vernham’s ear — though probably no one 
in front had any cognisance of the fact that he 
spoke at all. 

‘ Go on ! — Why don’t you go on ? ’ 

She looked at him askance, then back again 
at the laughing woman — and was still. 

Possibly because the players showed no signs 
of proceeding, and the laughers none of stopping, 
in the middle of the uproar the curtain descended. 

Immediately the stage was filled with an 
excited company — performers, dressers, stage- 
hands, all who were engaged behind the scenes ; 
with Philip Basing in front, his wife behind him. 
Rayment burst into a storm of imprecations — 
still sometimes they swear upon the stage. 

‘ The play’s as dead as a door nail — what’s 
the good of flogging a dead donkey? I’ll be 
hanged if I go on with it ! ’ 

‘ I’ll be hanged if you don’t ! ’ screamed Philip 
Basing. ‘You’re under contract to act in my 
play, and act in it you shall. Break your con- 
tract at your peril — I’ll sue you for damages in 
every court in England.’ 

Mr Rayment relieved his mind with further 
oaths. 

‘Who the devil do you suppose is going to 


26 0 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


act with this?’ He jerked his arm towards 
Ada Vernham. ‘ She wasn’t in the contract. 
What good are you going to do yourself by 
prolonging the agony? There’ll be a free fight 
before you’ve done. They won’t stand this’ — 
he hesitated, the better to slur the word — ‘lady 
to the bitter end.’ 

* That’s my affair, not yours ; you carry out 
your part of the contract, leave me to carry 
out mine.’ 

And again the curtain rose, to fjnd the spec- 
tators behaving more like an antagonistic mob 
at some rowdy political meeting than like the 
average audience in an average theatre. It 
was impossible for self-respecting mummers to 
even play the fool in front of such a set 
of brawlers ; the serious acting of a serious 
play was out of the question. Rayment, driven 
to desperation, went striding down to the floats 
— he might have had a voice in whistling up 
the wind ; but he had never desired such a 
hurricane as this. 

‘ Ladies and gentlemen ! ’ he shouted. 

There were cries of ‘Hush!’ Silence!* 
Listen ! ’ 

Some one yelled — ‘ Shut it ! let’s hear what 
Rayment’s got to say.’ 


ACT TWO 


261 


The actor stood motionless in front of them. 
The storm began to subside. 

‘ When you are quite still/ he proclaimed, 
there is something which I wish to say to you.’ 

And when they were quite still he said it. 

* Ladies and gentlemen, it is only owing to 
Miss Vernham’s and Mr Basing’s desire not to 
disappoint you that an attempt has been made 
to perform “A Legend of the Rhine” at all to- 
night. Miss Vernham is ill. Only an anxiety 
to keep faith with you and with Mr Basing has 
kept her out of a sick bed. She was unwilling 
to crave, on her own behalf, the favour of your 
kind indulgence ; but since you have shown 
towards her such singular signs of sympathy, 
she prays of your great charity your most 
merciful forgiveness.’ 

He paused. There was silence, then symp- 
toms of applause. Rayment’s voice was raised 
to stem them. 

‘She desires me to say for her that if you 
will only show yourselves a little kinder, a little 
less eager to evince resentment, she will endeavour 
to continue the performance, and will do her 
utmost to earn your approbation. And on my 
part I will add this, that if you will so far ex- 
tend your charity towards a friendless woman, 


262 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


who is making her first appearance on a London 
stage, with so many things against her, and under 
circumstances of such singular difficulty, I believe 
that you will have no reason to regret your 
generosity. And surely I do not err when I 
assert that my experience teaches me that one 
need not ask a London audience for a second 
time to be generous/ 

The agile actor’s agile words met with un- 
bounded favour. The entire house burst into 
spontaneous applause, as if he had been paying 
it a compliment. Had some such remarks been 
addressed to the audience at the commencement 
of the evening, all might have gone well. Even 
then the performance might have proceeded with- 
out further serious interruption, had it not been 
for the action of a single individual. 

As Rayment, having bowed in acknowledgment 
of the plaudits, was about to return to his 
proper place in the scene, a man stood up in 
the pit, a tall thin man shabbily dressed, wearing 
an old top hat. He stretched out his arms. 

‘ That’s my wife ! ’ he shrieked. ‘ My wife ! ’ 

Every eye was turned in his direction, Ada 
Vernham’s amongst the rest. When she recog- 
nised who it was, she shrunk farther up the 


ACT TWO 263 

stage. He continued shrieking, his excitement 
growing with every word. 

‘There’s a great winged spider right in front 
of your face. It will claw your eyes out — 
knock it away. There’s another crawling up your 
dress — look out! shake it off! There’s another 
at your feet, step on it ! crush it ! Look out ! look 
out ! there’s an ugly beast behind you, heaps ! 
heaps ! run away ! run away ! they’ll get you if 
you don’t.’ 

‘Who is he?’ shouted some one. ‘Turn him 
out ! ’ shouted another. ‘ He’s got ’ere again ! ’ cried 
a third. The audience was disturbed from the 
calmness into which it had just been settling. 

While Mr Mabbett’s madness grew apace. 

‘ They’ll kill you if they touch you — they’ll 
kill you ! Drive them away ! They’re chang- 
ing colour — that means mischief ! Look out ! 
don’t move — stand still — they’re all about you ! 
They’re dropping from the ' ceiling — they’re 
dropping from the ceiling ! It’s me they 
want — I’m not afraid — let me get at them — 
I’ll kill the lot!’ 

Those immediately surrounding him, taken 
unawares, expecting nothing of the kind, seemed 
to be more than a little scared by the singularity 
of Mr Mabbett’s antics. When, quitting his 


264 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


seat, he made a dash across the benches towards 
the stage, so far from doing anything to impede 
his progress, they showed every willingness to be 
rid of him, and to let him pass. It was only 
when, yelling and whooping like the stark 
staring madman which he was, he had clambered 
over the backs of a couple of rows of stalls, that 
people seemed to wake to an understanding 
of what it was that he proposed to do. When 
they did, and, on all sides, men started up to 
bar his farther advance, a scrimmage royal began 
— gentlemen in Mr Mabbett’s plight are not to 
be controlled by feathers. 

As the people closed on him, and Mr Mabbett, 
wholly heedless of such a trifle as overwhelming 
odds, began to fight with them like some mad 
beast, a woman’s shrieks rang through the house. 
And for the second time during that act, the 
curtain fell. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


THE END OF THE PLAY 

And again a miscellaneous crowd came stream- 
ing on to the stage. 

Ada Vernham continued screaming after the 
curtain had fallen. Mr Mabbett’s display of 
eccentricity was seemingly the one thing needed 
to make her like himself. Her cries were 
apparently convulsive ; it was beyond her power 
to stop them. People pressed about her ; she 
stood in their midst, uttering shriek after 
shriek. 

Philip Basing came hurrying forward. Rayment 
blocked his passage. 

‘ Now, I suppose, you’ve had enough — or do 
you propose that the piece shall still go on ? ’ 

Basing’s appearance had not improved with 
the flight of the moments. His cheeks were 
more flushed, his eyes more bloodshot, his hair 
more dishevelled, his clothing more awry. Every 


266 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


remnant of self - control seemed to have been 
scattered to the winds. His whole horizon was 
obscured by his own misfortune. The only thing of 
which he was conscious was the ruin of all his 
fondest hopes, the dissolution of all his castles 
in the air — those castles which he had been so 
long a-building. Just as he had been over- 
sanguine, now he was overflowing with the mad- 
ness of a wild despair. Disgrace — pecuniary, 
social, intellectual — was on his every side. All 
was lost, including honour. To his distorted 
fancy, the only thing left to him was vengeance. 
If he could be equal, to some extent, somehow, 
with those who were responsible for his disaster 
— that might be some alleviation. 

So now when Rayment asked him if he did 
not think it was time that the performance of the 
piece should stop, half inarticulate with passion, he 
simply snarled at him. At that moment, if he 
could have had his way, he would have had the 
play acted to the end, even though such a course 
involved a holocaust of the performers. 

‘You shan’t stop! you shan’t!’ He stamped 
his feet, and clenched his fists, and worked his 
arms, like some angry child which is beside itself 
with rage. ‘You shall act my play right 
through ! Why should you stop ? Because of 


THE END OF THE PLAY 267 

her?' He pointed to Miss Vernham. ‘She 

dare to stop ! ’ 

Going to the still shrieking woman, he seized 
her by the arm. The sight of him proved suffi- 
cient to subdue her. She looked at him with 
staring eyes, and mouth agape, while he rained 
on her a flood of charges the baselessness of 
which, in his saner moments, he would have been 
the first to realise. 

‘ It’s all your doing. You’ve plotted, planned it 
all; do you think that I don’t know? You’ve 
brought that drunken scoundrel — you’ve brought 
Graham — you’ve packed the house — you’ve left 
no stone unturned to ruin me ! And I’m ruined ! 
Well! So you’re content! But if you thought 
that I’d spare you any more than you’ve spared 
me, that’s where your calculations erred. I’ll 
have the last ounce of your flesh, the last drop of 
your blood — you’ve had all mine, and if it’s in 
the contract, I’ll have all yours. You’ll go on 
acting — do you hear, you’ll go on acting ! And 
you’ll act my play right to the end — to the very 
end ! And if they hoot you, if they stone you, 
if they kill you, I don’t care. What is it to me 
what your friends, with whom you’ve packed the 
house, may do to you ? Even as you’ve shown no 
mercy unto me or mine, I’ll show none to you. 


268 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


You’ll go on acting now — at once. I’ll have no 
faltering. Clear the stage ! ’ 

He shouted the last words as loudly as the 
peculiar affection from which his voice seemed 
suffering permitted him to go. His hearers 
showed signs of irresolution, as if uncertain 
whether or not to obey his orders. 

While they hesitated, Mrs Basing came and 
placed herself in front of the unresponsive actress. 
For a moment her little slender, girlish figure 
was motionless ; her tongue was mute. Then, 
deliberately raising her right hand, she struck 
her with her open palm upon the cheek, and she 
said : — 

‘ That is my hand which strikes you ! * With 
her other palm she struck her on the other 
cheek. * And that is the hand of my dead baby.’ 
She was silent. Then added, as if out of the 
fulness of her heart her lips were speaking, 
‘You wicked woman!’ 

Those who witnessed her action and heard 
the words, expected that now, at least, Ada 
Vernham would show signs of resentment. But 
no ; she stood motionless, as if she had been 
carved out of stone, with, on her cheeks, the 
flaming marks of the other’s fingers ; and she 
spoke never a word. 


THE END OF THE PLAY 


269 


While they stood, wondering, scornful, half 
disposed to ask if this woman was a creature 
of flesh and blood like unto themselves, or a 
bloodless invertebrate being, unworthy even their 
contempt, there came from the wings the sound 
of a man’s voice, speaking eagerly, impetuously, 
peremptorily. 

‘ Let me pass ! Stand out of my way, man ! 
Make room there ! Let me come ! ’ 

The voice was full, clear, dominant ; as of a 
man who is in no temper to brook contradiction. 
There was that about it, apparently, which was 
familiar to the silent woman ; for, as a familiar 
voice is apt to do, it reached her ear at once, find- 
ing its way, without difficulty, through the prevail- 
ing uproar and confusion. And, as she heard it, 
her fingers straightened ; her head was thrown 
a little upwards ; light came back into her eyes, 
and life into her face. She was revivified. In 
her bearing there was something which suggested 
expectation — the sort of expectation which makes 
the heart beat faster and the blood flow quicker 
through the veins. 

And, on a sudden, there came rushing into 
the midst of the miscellaneous assemblage a 
tall man, who wore a felt hat and a cloak. His 
shaven cheeks were glowing with the ardour of 


270 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


his emotion, and in his eyes were flaming fires. 
The people falling back from him, he stood in 
the centre of a little open space, looking about 
him, as if he searched for some particular 
person, until his glance fell upon the actress 
who had so pitifully failed. And, when it did, 
it stayed. And there came into his face a 
look of longing, so strenuous, so unashamed, 
it was as though he were transfigured ; and, 
standing still, he held out his arms to her; he 
waited. 

And, when she saw him, she began to quiver, 
and to shiver, as though some subtle titillation had 
set her trembling. Tears came into her eyes. 
Great palpitations moved her breasts. And she 
went to him, swiftly, eagerly, as to her heart’s 
desire. 

‘Gilbert! Gilbert! Gilbert!’ 

The repetition of the name was like a remi- 
niscence of the old world story of a Beckett. 
It came softly, gladly, from her lips as if her 
heart came with it. And when she came within 
the circumference of his arms, he encircled her 
about with them, pressing her to his bosom 
with a sigh which was half rapture, half pain. In 
spite of her painted cheeks, and the place, and 
the spectators, he kissed her on the lips, and 


THE END OF THE PLAY 


271 


eyes, and brow, as if he never would have done. 
And he exclaimed, with, in his utterance, a strange 
passionate sort of exultation — 

‘ Madge ! my darling ! my dear ! at last ! ’ 

And she was still ; seeming, after the storm, 
at rest. Until, presently, she lifted up her face to 
his, and said, with the same unconsciousness of 
the fact that they were not alone — 

‘ Gilbert, I’ve loved you all these years ! ’ 

He, with the same freedom and absence of 
constraint, as if the whole force of his nature 
leaped from his lips with the words, cried back 
to her — 

‘ And I’ve loved you ! * 

She put up her mouth to his, and again they 
kissed ; as if they sealed, with that kiss, a deed 
and testament with a seal which never might be 
broken. 

Philip Basing, surprised, like the rest, into 
silence by the unexpectedness of this man’s 
appearance, and by the singularity of his pro- 
ceedings, pushed his way to the front, demanding, 
querulously — 

‘ Who the devil, sir, are you ? ’ 

The sound of his voice restored the woman to 
a realisation of her surroundings. She shrunk 
away from him, with a movement of terror. 


272 


ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS 


clutching affrightedly at Gilbert Ellerslie’s arm, 
and looking up at him with pleading face. 

‘Gilbert, you won’t let him make me go on 
acting ? ’ 

He held her to him, as if to stay her fears. 
f My darling ! as if I would ! ’ 

Basing, finding that his question remained 
unanswered, repeated it, with additions. 

‘ The stage is waiting for this woman ! do you 
hear me asking who the devil, sir, are you ? ’ 

Gilbert Ellerslie accorded his inquiry but scanty 
consideration, 

‘ I am afraid, sir, the stage will have to wait. 
This lady goes with me ! ’ 

Putting his arm through hers, he turned, as if in- 
tending to depart with as little ceremony as he came. 
Basing made as if to stay his going ; but John 
Tullet, taking him by the shoulder, drew him back. 
‘ Let her go,’ he said. ‘ The play is ended.’ 

And Philip Basing let her go. 

So Gilbert Ellerslie, none offering him hindrance, 
went out with the woman into the night ; she 
attired in the stage costume of a Rhineland 
maiden of the olden time. 


THE END 


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extremely well received last season. It deals with the inside life of 
the London stage, and is of absorbing interest. 


The Wallet of Kai Lung. By Ernest Bramah. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 350 pages . $1.50 

This is the first book of a new writer, and is exceedingly well 
done. It deals with the fortunes of a Chinese professional story- 
teller, who meets with many surprising adventures. The style 
suggests somewhat the rich Oriental coloring of the Arabian 
Nights. 

Edward Barry : south sea pearler. By Louis 

Becke. 

Author of “ By Reef and Palm,” “ Ridan, the Devil,” etc. 

With four full-page illustrations by H. C. Edwards. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 300 pages . $1.50 

An exceedingly interesting story of sea life and adventure, the 
scene of which is laid in the Lagoon Islands of the Pacific. 

This is the first complete novel from the pen of Mr. Becke, and 
readers of his collections of short stories will quickly recognize that 
the author can write a novel that will grip the reader. Strong, and 
even tragic, as is his novel in the main, “ Edward Barry ” has a 
happy ending, and woman’s love and devotion are strongly por- 
trayed. 

Unto the Heights of Simplicity. By j 0 - 

HANNES REIMERS. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 300 pages . . . #1.25 

We take pleasure in introducing to the reading public a writer of 
unique charm and individuality. His style is notable for its quaint 
poetic idiom and subtle imaginative flavor. In the present story, he 
treats with strength and reticence of the relation of the sexes and 
the problem of marriage. Certain social abuses and false standards 
of morality are attacked with great vigor, yet the plot is so interest- 
ing for its own sake that the book gives no suspicion of being a 
problem novel. The descriptions of natural scenery are idyllic in 
their charm, and form a fitting background for the lcve story. 


LIST OF NEW FICTION 


3 


The Black Terror. A Romance of Russia. By John 
K. Leys. 

With frontispiece by Victor A. Searles. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 350 pages . . . #1.50 

A stirring tale of the present day, presenting in a new light the 
aims and objects of the Nihilists. The story is so vivid and true to 
life that it might easily be considered a history of political intrigue 
in Russia, disguised as a novel, while its startling incidents and 
strange denouement would only confirm the old adage that “ truth 
is stranger than fiction,” and that great historical events may be 
traced to apparently insignificant causes. The hero of the story 
is a young Englishman, whose startling resemblance to the Czar is 
taken advantage of by the Nihilists for the furtherance of their 
plans. 


The Baron’s Sons. By Maurus Jokai. 

Author of “ Black Diamonds,” “ The Green Book,” “ Pretty 
Michal,” etc. Translated by Percy F. Bicknell. 

Library izmo, cloth decorative, with photogravure 
portrait of the author, 350 pages . . . . $1.50 

An exceedingly interesting romance of the revolution of 1848, 
the scene of which is laid at the courts of St. Petersburg, Moscow, 
and Vienna, and in the armies of the Austrians and Hungarians. 
It follows the fortunes of three young Hungarian noblemen, whose 
careers are involved in the historical incidents of the time. The 
story is told with all of Jokai’s dash and vigor, and is exceedingly 
interesting. This romance has been translated for us directly from 
the Hungarian, and never has been issued hitherto in English. 


Slaves of Chance. B y ferrier langworthy. 

With five portraits of the heroines, from original drawings by 
Hiel. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 350 pages . $ 1.50 

As a study of some of the realities of London life, this novel is 
one of notable merit. The slaves of chance, and, it might be added, 
of temptation, are five pretty girls, the daughters of a pretty widow, 
whose means are scarcely sufficient, even living as they do, in a 
quiet way and in a quiet London street, to make both ends meet. 
Dealing, as he does, with many sides of London life, the writer 
sketches varied types of character, and his creations are cleverly 
defined. He tells an interesting tale with delicacy and in a fresh, 
attractive style. 


4 


L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY^ 


Her Boston Experiences. By Margaret allston 

(nom de plume). 

With eighteen full-page illustrations from drawings by Frank 
O. Small, and from photographs taken especially for the 
book. 

Small i2mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 225 pages . $1.25 

a most interesting and vivacious tale, dealing with society life 
at the Hub, with perhaps a tinge of the flavor of Vagabondia. The 
story has appeared serially in The Ladies' Home Journal , where it 
was received with marked success. We are not as yet at liberty to 
give the true name of the author, who hides her identity under the 
pen name, Margaret Allston, but she is well known in literature. 

Memory Street. By Martha Baker Dunn. 

Author of “ The Sleeping Beauty,” etc. 

Library I2mo, cloth decorative, 300 pages . . . $1.25 

An exceedingly beautiful story, delineating New England life and 
character. The style and interest will compare favorably with the 
work of such writers as Mary E. Wilkins, Kate Douglas Wiggin, 
and Sarah Orne Jewett. The author has been a constant con- 
tributor to the leading magazines, and the interest of her previous 
work will assure welcome for her first novel. 

Winifred. A Story of the Chalk Cliffs. By S. 
Baring Gould. 

Author of “ Mehala,” etc. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 350 pages . $1.50 

A striking novel of English life in the eighteenth century by this 
well known writer. The scene is laid partly in rural Devonshire, 
and partly in aristocratic London circles. 

At the Court of the King : Being Romances of 

France. By G. Hembert Westley, editor of “ For Love’s 
Sweet Sake.” 

With a photogravure frontispiece from an original drawing. 
Library 1 2mo, cloth decorative, 300 pages . . . $1.25 

Despite the prophecies of some literary experts, the historical 
romance is still on the high tide of popular favor, as exemplified by 
many recent successes. We feel justified, consequently, in issuing 
these stirring romances of intrigue and adventure, love and war, at 
the Courts of the French Kings. 


LIST OF NEW FICTION 


5 


God’s Rebel. By Hulbert Fuller. 

Author of “ Vivian of Virginia.” 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 375 pages . . . $1.25 

A powerful story of sociological questions. The scene is laid in 
Chicago, the hero being a professor in “Rockland University,” 
whose protest against the unequal distribution of wealth and the 
wretched condition of workmen gains for him the enmity of the 
“ Savior Oil Company,” through whose influence he loses his posi- 
tion. His after career as a leader of laborers who are fighting 
to obtain their rights is described with great earnestness. The 
character drawing is vigorous and varied, and the romantic plot 
holds the interest throughout. The Albany Journal is right in 
pronouncing this novel “ an unusually strong story.” It can hardly 
fail to command an immense reading public. 


A Georgian Actress. By Pauline Bradford Mackie. 

Author of “ Mademoiselle de Berny,” “Ye Lyttle Salem 
Maide,” etc. 

With four full-page illustrations from drawings by E. W. D. 
Hamilton. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 300 pages . $1-50 

An interesting romance of the days of George III., dealing with 
the life and adventures of a fair and talented young play-actress, 
the scene of which is laid in England and America. The success of 
Miss Mackie’s previous books will justify our prediction that a new 
volume will receive an instant welcome. 


God — The King — Jly Brother. A Romance. 

By Mary F. Nixon. 

Author of “ With a Pessimist in Spain,” “ A Harp of Many 
Chords,” etc. 

With a frontispiece by H. C. Edwards. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 300 pages . . . $1.25 

An historical tale, dealing with the romantic period of Edward 
the Black Prince. The scene is laid for the most part in the 
sunny land of Spain, during the reign of Pedro the Cruel — 
the ally in war of the Black Prince. The well-told story records 
the adventures of two young English knight-errants, twin brothers, 
whose family motto gives the title to the book. The Spanish maid, 
the heroine of the romance, is a delightful characterization, and the 
love story, with its surprising yet logical denouement, is enthralling. 


6 


L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY’S 


Punchinello. By Florence Stuart. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 325 pages . $1.50 

A love story of intense power and pathos. The hero is a hunch- 
back (Punchinello), who wins the love of a beautiful young girl. 
Her sudden death, due indirectly to his jealousy, and the discovery 
that she had never faltered in her love for him, combine to unbalance 
his mind. The poetic style relieves the sadness of the story, and 
the reader is impressed with the power and brilliancy of its concep- 
tion, as well as with the beauty and grace of the execution. 


The Golden Fleece. Translated from the French of 
Amedee Achard, author of “ The Huguenot’s Love,” etc. 

Illustrated by Victor A. Searles. 

Library 1 2mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 450 pages . $1*50 

Amedee Achard was a contemporary writer of Dumas, and his 
romances are very similar to those of that great writer. “ The 
Golden Fleece” compares favorably with “The Three Musketeers ” 
and the other D’Artagnan romances. The story relates the adven- 
tures of a young Gascon gentleman, an officer in the army sent by 
Louis XIV. to assist the Austrians in repelling the Turkish Invasion 
under the celebrated Achmet Kiuperli. 

The Good Ship York. By W. Clark Russell. 

Author of “The Wreck of the Grosvenor ,” “ A Sailor’s Sweet- 
heart,” etc. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 350 pages $1 50 

A romantic and exciting sea tale, equal to the best work of this 
famous writer, relating the momentous voyage of the clipper ship 
York , and the adventures that befell Julia Armstrong, a passenger, 
and George Hardy, the chief mate. 

“ Mr. Russell has no rival in the line of marine fiction.” — Mail and Express. 

Tom Ossingtoil's Qhost. By Richard Marsh. 

Author of “ Frivolities,” “ Ada Vernham, Actress,” etc. Illus- 
trated by Harold Pifford. 

Library 12 mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 325 pages . $1.50 

“ I read ‘ Tom Ossington’s Ghost ’ the other night, and was afraid to go up-stairs 
in the dark after it.” — Truth. 

“An entrancing book, but people with weak nerves had better not read it at 
night.” — To-day. 

“ Mr. Marsh has been inspired by an entirely original idea, and has worked it out 
with great ingenuity. We like the weird but not repulsive story better than anything 
he has ever done.” — World. 


LIST OF NEW FICTION 7 

The Glory and Sorrow of Norwich. By 

M. M. Blake. 

Author of “The Blues and the Brigands,” etc., etc., with 
twelve full-page illustrations. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 315 pages . #1.50 

The hero of this romance, Sir John de Reppes, is an actual 
personage, and throughout the characters and incidents are instinct 
with the spirit of the age, as related in the chronicles of Froissart. 
Its main claim for attention, however, is in the graphic representa- 
tion of the age of chivalry which it gives, forming a series of brilliant 
and fascinating pictures of mediaeval England, its habits of thought 
and manner of life, which live in the mind for many a day after 
perusal, and assist to a clearer conception of what is one of the most 
charming and picturesque epochs of history. 

The nistress of JTaidenwood. By Hulbert 

Fuller. 

Author of “ Vivian of Virginia,” “ God’s Rebel,” etc. 

Library 1 2mo, cloth decorative, 350 pages . . . $1.50 

A stirring historical romance of the American Revolution, the 
scene of which for the most part being laid in and about the debatable 
ground in the vicinity of New York City. 

Dauntless, a Tale of a Lost Cause. By Captain Ewan 
Martin. 

Author of “ The Knight of King’s Guard.” 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 400 pages, illustrated . $1.50 

A stirring romance of the days of Charles I. and Cromwell in 
England and Ireland. In its general character the book invites 
comparison with Scott’s “Waverley.” It well sustains the reputa- 
tion gained by Captain Martin from “ The Knight of King’s Guard.” 


The Flame of Life. (Il Fuoco.) Translated from 

the Italian of Gabriel D’Annunzio, author of “ Triumph of 
Death,” etc., by Kassandra Vivaria, author of “Via 
Lucis.” 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 350 pages . . . $1.50 

This is the first volume in the Third Trilogy, “The Romances 
of the Pomegranate,” of the three announced by the great Italian 
writer. We were fortunate in securing the book, and also in securing 
the services as translator of the talented author of “Via Lucis,” 
herself an Italian by birth. 

























4 























Selections from 

L. C. Page and Company's 

List of Fiction. 

An Enemy to the King. ( Thirtieth Thousand.) 
From the Recently Discovered Memoirs of the 
S lEUR DE LA TOURNOIRE. By ROBERT NEILSON STE- 
PHENS. 

Illustrated by H. De M. Young. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, gilt top, 460 pages . $1.50 

“ Brilliant as a play ; it is equally brilliant as a romantic novel.” — Philadelphia 
Press. 

“ Those who love chivalry, fighting, and intrigue will find it, and of good quality, 
. in this book.” — New York Critic. 


The Continental Dragoon. {Eighteenth. Thousand .) 

A Romance of Philipse Manor House, in 1778. By 
Robert Neilson Stephens. 

Author of “ An Enemy to the King.” 

Illustrated by H. C. Edwards. 

Library 1 2mo, cloth decorative, 300 pages . . . $1*50 

“ It has the sterling qualities of strong dramatic writing, and ranks among the 
most spirited and ably written historical romances of the season. An impulsive ap- 
preciation of a soldier who is a soldier, a man who is a man, a hero who is a hero, is 
one of the most captivating of Mr. Stephens’s charms of manner and style.” — 
Boston Herald. 


The Road to Paris. (, Sixteenth Thousand .) By Robert 
Neilson Stephens. 

Author of “ An Enemy to the King,” “ The Continental Dra- 
goon,” etc. 

Illustrated by H. C. Edwards. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 500 pages . . . $1.50 

“ Vivid and picturesque in style, well conceived and full of action, the novel is 
absorbing from cover to cover.” — Philadelphia Public Ledger. 

« I n the line of historical romance, few books of the season will equal Robert 
Neilson Stephens’s ‘ The Road to Paris.’ ” — Cincinnati Times-Star • 


2 


L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY’S 


A Gentleman Player. ( Thirty-fifth Thousand.) his 

Adventures on a Secret Mission for Queen Eliza- 
beth. By Robert Neilson Stephens. 

Author of “ An Enemy to the King,” “ The Continental Dra- 
goon,” “ The Road to Paris,” etc. 

Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 450 pages . . . $1.50 

“ A thrilling historical romance. ... It is a well-told tale of mingled romance 
and history, and the reader throughout unconsciously joins in the flight and thrills 
with the excitement of the dangers and adventures that befall the fugitives.” — 
Chicago Tribune. 

“ * A Gentleman Player ’ is well conceived and well told.” — Boston Journal. 


Rose a Charlitte. (. Eighth Thousand .) An Acadien 
Romance. By Marshall Saunders, 

Author of “ Beautiful Joe,” etc. 

Illustrated by H. De M. Young. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 500 pages . . . $1.50 

“ A very fine novel we unhesitatingly pronounce it . . . one of the books that 
stamp themselves at once upon the imagination and remain imbedded in the memory 
long after the covers are closed.” — Literary IV or Id, Boston. 


Deficient Saints. A Tale of Maine. By Marshall 
Saunders. 

Author of “ Rose a Charlitte,” “ Beautiful Joe,” etc. 

Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 400 pages . . . $1.50 

“ The tale is altogether delightful ; it is vitally charming and expresses a quiet 
power that sparkles with all sorts of versatile beauty.” — Boston Ideas. 


Her Sailor. A Novel. By Marshall Saunders. 

Author of “ Rose a Charlitte,” “ Beautiful Joe,” etc. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 325 pages #1.25 

A story of modern life of great charm and pathos, dealing with 
the love affairs of an American girl and a naval officer. 

“A love story, refreshing and sweet.” — Utica Herald. 

“ The wayward petulance of the maiden, who half-resents the matter-of-course 
wooing and wedding, her graceful coquetry, and final capitulation are prettily told, 
tnaking a fine character sketch and an entertaining story.” — Bookseller, Chicago. 


LIST OF FICTION 


3 


Pretty Michal. A Romance of Hungary. By Maurus 

JOKAI. 

Author of “ Black Diamonds,” “ The Green Book,” “ Midst the 
Wild Carpathians,” etc. 

Authorized translation by R. Nisbet Bain. 

Illustrated with a photogravure frontispiece of the great Mag- 
yar writer. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 325 pages . . . $1.50 

“ It is at once a spirited tale of * border chivalry,’ a charming love story full of 
genuine poetry, and a graphic picture of life in a country and at a period both equally 
new to English readers.” — Literary World , London. 

Midst the Wild Carpathians. By Maurus 

JOKAI. 

Author of “ Black Diamonds,” “The Lion of Janina,” etc. 
Authorized translation by R. Nisbet Bain. 

Illustrated by J. W. Kennedy. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 300 pages . . . $1.25 

“The story is absorbingly interesting and displays all the virility of Jokai’s 
powers, his genius of description, his keenness of characterization, his subtlety of 
humor, and his consummate art in the progression of the novel from one apparent 
climax to another.” — Chicago Evening Post. 

In Kings 5 Houses, a romance of the reign of 
Queen Anne. By Julia C. R. Dorr. 

Author of “ A Cathedral Pilgrimage,” etc. 

Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 400 pages . . . $1.50 

“ We close the book with a wish that the author may write more romances of the 
history of England which she knows so well.” — Bookman, New York. 

“ A fine strong story which is a relief to come upon. Related with charming, 
simple art.” — Philadelphia Public Ledger. 

Omar the Tentmaker. a romance of old 

Persia. By Nathan Haskell Dole. 

Illustrated by F. T. Merrill. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 350 pages . . . $1.50 

“The story itself is beautiful and it is beautifully written. It possesses the true 
spirit of romance, and is almost poetical in form. The author has undoubtedly been 
inspired by his admiration for the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam to write this story of 
which Omar is the hero.” — Troy Times. 

“ Mr. Dole has built a delightful romance.” — Chicago Chronicle. 

“ It is a strong and vividly written story, full of the life and spirit of romance,” — 
New Orleans Picayune. 


4 


L. C. PAGE AND COMPANYS 


Manders. a Tale of Paris. By Elwyn Barron. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 350 pages $1.50 

“ Bright descriptions of student life in Paris, sympathetic views of human frailty, 
and a dash of dramatic force, combine to form an attractive story. The book contains 
some very strong scenes, plenty of life and color, and a pleasant tinge of humor. 
... It has grip, picturesqueness, and vivacity.” — The Speaker, London. 

“ A study of deep human interest, in which pathos and humor both play their 
parts. The descriptions of life in the Quartier Latin are distinguished for their 
freshness and liveliness.” — St. James Gazette, London. 

“A romance sweet as violets.” — Town Topics, New York. 


In Old New York. A Romance. By Wilson Bar- 
rett, author of “ The Sign of the Cross,” etc., and Elwyn 
Barron, author of “ Manders.” 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, 350 pages $1.50 

“ A novel of great interest and vigor.” — Philadelphia Inquirer. 

“ ‘ In Old New York ’ is worthy of its distinguished authors.” — Chicago Times- 
Herald. 

“ I ntensely interesting. It has an historical flavor that gives it a substantial value.’ ’ 
— Boston Globe. 


The Golden Dog. A Romance of Quebec. By 
William Kirby. 

New authorized edition. 

Illustrated by J. W. Kennedy. 

Library 1 2mo, cloth decorative, 620 pages . . . $1.25 

“ A powerful romance of love, intrigue, and adventure in the time of Louis XV. 
and Mme. de Pompadour, when the French colonies were making their great 
struggle to retain for an ungrateful court the fairest jewels in the colonial diadem of 
France.” — New York Herald. 


The Knight of King’s Guard. A Romance of 

the Days of the Black Prince. By Ewan Martin. 

Illustrated by Gilbert James. 

Library i2mo, cloth decorative, 300 pages . . . $1.50 

An exceedingly well written romance, dealing with the romantic 
period chronicled so admirably by Froissart. The scene is laid at a 
border castle between England and Scotland, the city of London, 
and on the French battle-fields of Cressy and Poitiers. Edward the 
Third, Queen Philippa, the Black Prince, Bertrand du Guesclin, are 
all historical characters, accurate reproductions of which give life 
and vitality to the romance. The character of the hero is especially 
well drawn. 













